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"i'':!(H!i/:/'Miii:i;,i,idii.i!:!:ii;i" 


"can  I  SIT  UP  HERE   BESIDE  YOU,  OR  DO  YOU  RULE  ALONE  V 

[See  page  12.] 


VAN  BIBBER  AND  OTHERS 


BY 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 

AUTHOR    OF    "GALLEGHER,   AND    OTHER    STORIES ' 
"stories  FOR   boys"   ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 

1892 


Copyright,  1892,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 
All  rights  reserved. 


TO 

MY   FATHER 
L.  CLARKE   DAVIS 

WHO  HAS  BEEN  MY  KINDEST  AND 
MY  SEVEREST  CRITIC 


CONTENTS 


FASE 

HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE 3 

VAN  bibber's  man-servant 37 

THE    HUNGRY   MAN   WAS   FED     ......  47 

VAN   BIBBER    AT   THE    RACES 57 

AN    EXPERIMENT   IN   ECONOMY 67 

MR.  TRAVERS'S    FIRST   HUNT 77 

LOVE   ME,  LOVE    MY   DOG 85 

ELEANORE    CUYLER    .........  95 

A   RECRUIT   AT   CHRISTMAS 133 

A   PATRON    OF   ART 145 

ANDY   m'GEE's    chorus    GIRL 159 

A   LEANDER    OF   THE    EAST   RIVER     ....  169 

HOW   HEFTY   BURKE    GOT   EVEN 183 

OUTSIDE   THE   PRISON      .      ; 197 

AN   UNFINISHED   STORY 223 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  '  CAN  I   SIT    UP   HEEE   BESIDE  YOU,  OR 

DO  YOU  RULE  ALONE  ?' ".     .     .     .  Frontispiecc. 

"but  he  knew  that  was  NOT  THE 

reason" Facing  p.  18 

"  *even  to-day,  there  is  the  chance 

SAMARITAN'" "  26 

**  '  ARE    YOU    READY,   ELEANORE  ?'    SHE 

ASKED,    BRISKLY " "         106 


HER  FIRST  APPEARANCE 


HEK  FIRST  APPEAEANCE 


IT  was  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  of  the  first 
night  of  "The  Sultana,"  and  every  member 
of  the  Lester  Comic  Opera  Company,  from  Lester 
himself  down  to  the  wardrobe  woman's  son,  who 
would  have  had  to  work  if  his  mother  lost  her 
place,  was  sick  with  anxiety. 

There  is  perhaps  only  one  otlier  place  as  fever- 
ish as  it  is  behind  the  scenes  on  the  first  night  of 
a  comic  opera,  and  that  is  a  newspaper  office  on 
the  last  night  of  a  Presidential  campaign,  when 
the  returns  are  being  flashed  on  the  canvas  out- 
side, and  the  mob  is  howling,  and  the  editor-in- 
chief  is  expecting  to  go  to  the  Court  of  St.  James 
if  the  election  comes  his  way,  and  the  oifice-boy 
is  betting  his  wages  that  it  won't. 

Such  nights  as  these  try  men's  souls ;  but  Van 
Bibber  passed  the  stage-door  man  with  as  calmly 
polite  a  nod  as  though  the  piece  had  been  running 
a  hundred  nights,  and  the  manager  was  thinking 
up  souvenirs  for  the  one  hundred  and  fiftieth,  and 
the  prima  donna  had,  as  usual,  began  to  hint  for  a 
new  set  of  costumes.  The  stage-door  keeper  hesi- 
tated and  was  lost,  and  Van  Bibber  stepped  into 


4  IIEE    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

the  unsuppressed  excitement  of  the  place  with  a 
pleased  sniff  at  the  familiar  smell  of  paint  and 
burning  gas,  and  the  dusty  odor  that  came  from 
the  scene-lofts  above. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated  in  the  cross-lights 
and  confusion  about  him,  failing  to  recognize  in 
their  new  costumes  his  old  acquaintances  of  the 
company ;  but  he  saw  Kripps,  the  stage-mana- 
ger, in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  perspiring  and  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  as  always,  wildly  waving  an  arm 
to  some  one  in  the  flies,  and  beckoning  with  the 
other  to  the  gas-man  in  the  front  entrance.  The 
stage  hands  were  striking  the  scene  for  the  first 
act,  and  fighting  with  the  set  for  the  second, 
and  dragging  out  a  canvas  floor  of  tessellated 
marble,  and  running  a  throne  and  a  practical  pair 
of  steps  over  it,  and  aiming  the  high  quaking- 
walls  of  a  palace  and  abuse  at  whoever  came  in 
their  way. 

"  Now  then.  Van  Bibber,"  shouted  Kripps, 
with  a  wild  glance  of  recognition,  as  the  white- 
and-black  figure  came  towards  him,  "you  know 
you're  the  only  man  in  New  York  who  gets  be- 
hind here  to-night.  But  you  can't  stay.  Lower 
it,  lower  it,  can't  you  ?"  This  to  the  man  in  the 
flies.  "Any  other  night  goes,  but  not  this  night. 
I  can't  have  it.  I —  Where  is  tlie  backing  for 
the  centre  entrance  ?    Didn't  I  tell  you  men — " 

Van  Bibber  dodged  two  stage  hands  who  were 
steering  a  scene  at  him,  stepped  over  the  carpet 
as  it  unrolled,  and  brushed  through  a  group  of 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE  5 

anxious,  whispering  chorus  people  into  the  quiet 
of  the  star's  dressing-room. 

The  star  saw  him  in  the  long  mirror  before 
which  he  sat,  while  his  dresser  tugged  at  his 
boots,  and  threw  up  his  hands  desperately. 

"  Well,"  he  cried,  in  mock  resignation,  "  are 
we  in  it  or  are  we  not  ?  Are  they  in  their  seats 
still  or  have  they  fled  ?" 

'*  How  are  you,  John  ?"  said  Van  Bibber  to  the 
dresser.  Then  he  dropped  into  a  big  arm-chair 
in  the  corner,  and  got  up  again  with  a  protesting 
sigh  to  light  his  cigar  between  the  wires  around 
the  gas-burner.  "  Oh,  it's  going  very  well.  I 
wouldn't  have  come  around  if  it  wasn't.  If  the 
rest  of  it  is  as  good  as  the  first  act,  you  needn't 
worry." 

Van  Bibber's  unchallenged  freedom  behind  the 
scenes  had  been  a  source  of  much  comment  and 
perplexity  to  the  members  of  the  Lester  Comic 
Opera  Company.  He  had  made  his  first  ap- 
pearance there  during  one  hot  night  of  the  long 
run  of  the  previous  summer,  and  had  continued 
to  be  an  almost  nightly  visitor  for  several  weeks. 
At  first  it  was  supposed  that  he  was  backing  the 
piece,  that  he  was  the  "Angel,"  as  those  weak 
and  wealthy  individuals  are  called  who  allow  them- 
selves to  be  led  into  supplying  the  finances  for 
theatrical  experiments.  But  as  he  never  peered 
through  the  curtain-hole  to  count  the  house,  nor 
made  frequent  trips  to  the  front  of  it  to  look  at 
the  box  sheet,  but  was,  on  the  contrary,  just  as 


6  HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE 

undisturbed  on  a  rainy  night  as  on  those  when 
the  "  standing  room  only"  sign  blocked  the  front 
entrance,  this  supposition  was  discarded  as  untena- 
ble. Nor  did  he  show  the  least  interest  in  the 
prima  donna,  or  in  any  of  the  other  pretty  women 
of  the  company  ;  he  did  not  know  them,  nor  did 
he  make  any  effort  to  know  them,  and  it  was  not 
until  they  inquired  concerning  him  outside  of  the 
theatre  that  they  learned  what  a  figure  in  the  so- 
cial life  of  the  city  he  really  was.  He  spent  most 
of  his  time  in  Lester's  dressing-room  smoking, 
listening  to  the  reminiscences  of  Lester's  dresser 
when  Lester  was  on  the  stage;  and  this  seclusion 
and  his  clerical  attire  of  evening  dress  led  the 
second  comedian  to  call  him  Lester's  father  con- 
fessor, and  to  suggest  that  he  came  to  the  theatre 
only  to  take  the  star  to  task  for  his  sins.  And  in 
this  the  second  comedian  was  unknowingly  not  so 
very  far  wrong.  Lester,  the  comedian,  and  young 
Van  Bibber  had  known  each  other  at  the  univer- 
sity, when  Lester's  voice  and  gift  of  mimicry  had 
made  him  the  leader  in  the  college  theatricals  ; 
and  later,  when  he  had  gone  upon  the  stage,  and 
had  been  cut  off  by  his  family  even  after  he  had 
become  famous,  or  on  account  of  it,  Van  Bibber 
had  gone  to  visit  him,  and  had  found  him  as  sim- 
ple and  sincere  and  boyish  as  he  had  been  in  the 
days  of  his  Hasty-Pudding  successes.  And  Les- 
ter, for  his  part,  had  found  Van  Bibber  as  likable 
as  did  every  one  else,  and  welcomed  his  quiet 
voice  and  youthful  knowledge  of  the  world  as  a 


HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE  7 

grateful  relief  to  the  boisterous  camaraderie  of 
his  professional  acquaintances.     And  he  allowed 
Yan  Bibber  to  scold  him,  and  to  remind  him  of 
what   he   owed   to   himself,  and   to  touch,  even 
whether  it  hurt  or  not,  upon  his  better  side.    And 
in  time  he  admitted  to  finding  his  friend's  occa- 
sional comments  on  stage  matters  of    value  as 
coming  from  the  point  of  view  of  those  who  look 
on  at  the  game  ;  and  even  Kripps,  the  veteran, 
regarded  him  with  respect  after  he  had  told  him 
that  he  could  turn  a  set  of  purple  costumes  black 
by  throwing  a  red  light  on  them.     To  the  com- 
pany, after  he  came  to  know  them,  he  was  gravely 
polite,  and,  to  those  who  knew  him  if  they  had 
overheard,  amusingly  commonplace  in  his  conver- 
sation.   He  understood  them  better  than  they  did 
themselves,  and  made  no  mistakes.     The  women 
smiled  on  him,  but  the  men  were  suspicious  and 
shy  of  him  until  they  saw  that  he  was  quite  as 
shy  of  the  women  ;  and  then  they  made  him  a  con- 
fidant, and  told  him  all  their  woes  and  troubles, 
and  exhibited  all  their  little  jealousies  and  ambi- 
tions, in  the  innocent  hope  that  he  would  repeat 
what  they  said  to  Lester.     They  were  simple,  un- 
conventional, light-hearted  folk,  and  Van  Bibber 
found  them  vastly  more  entertaining  and  prefera- 
ble to  the  silence  of  the  deserted  club,  where  the 
matting  was  down,  and  from  whence  the  regular 
habitues  had  departed  to  the  other  side  or  to  New- 
port.   He  liked  the  swing  of  the  light,  bright  mu- 
sic as  it  came  to  him  through  the  open  door  of 


8  HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

the  dressing-room,  and  the  glimpse  he  got  of  the 
chorus  people  crowding  and  pushing  for  a  quick 
charge  up  the  iron  stairway,  and  the  feverish  smell 
of  oxygen  in  the  air,  and  the  picturesque  disorder 
of  Lester's  wardrobe,  and  the  wigs  and  swords, 
and  the  mysterious  articles  of  make-up,  all  mixed 
together  on  a  tray  with  half-finished  cigars  and 
autograph  books  and  newspaper  "  notices." 

And  he  often  wished  he  was  clever  enough 
to  be  an  artist  with  the  talent  to  paint  the  un- 
consciously graceful  groups  in  the  sharply  di- 
vided light  and  shadow  of  the  wings  as  he  saw 
them.  The  brilliantly  colored,  fantastically  clothed 
girls  leaning  against  the  bare  brick  wall  of  the 
theatre,  or  whispering  together  in  circles,  with 
their  arms  close  about  one  another,  or  reading 
apart  and  solitary,  or  working  at  some  piece  of 
fancy-work  as  soberly  as  though  they  were  in  a 
rocking-chair  in  their  own  flat,  and  not  leaning 
against  a  scene  brace,  w^ith  the  glare  of  the  stage 
and  the  applause  of  the  house  just  behind  them. 
He  liked  to  watch  them  coquetting  with  the  big 
fireman  detailed  from  the  precinct  engine-house, 
and  clinging  desperately  to  the  curtain  wire,  or 
with  one  of  the  chorus  men  on  the  stairs,  or  teas- 
ing the  phlegmatic  scene-shifters  as  they  tried  to 
catch  a  minute's  sleep  on  a  pile  of  canvas.  He 
even  forgave  the  prima  donna's  smiling  at  him 
from  the  stage,  as  he  stood  watching  her  from 
the  wings,  and  smiled  back  at  her  with  polite 
cynicism,  as  though  he  did  not  know  and  she  did 


HEK    FIRST   APPEARANCE  9 

not  know  that  her  smiles  were  not  for  him,  but 
to  disturb  some  more  interested  one  in  the  front 
row.  And  so,  in  time,  the  company  became  so 
well  accustomed  to  him  that  he  moved  in  and 
about  as  unnoticed  as  the  stage-manager  himself, 
who  prowled  around  hissing  "  hush  "  on  principle, 
even  though  he  was  the  only  person  who  could 
fairly  be  said  to  be  making  a  noise. 

The  second  act  was  on,  and  Lester  came  off  the 
stage  and  ran  to  the  dressing-room  and  beckoned 
violently.  "  Come  here,"  he  said  ;  "  you  ought 
to  see  this  ;  the  children  are  doing  their  turn. 
You  want  to  hear  them.     They're  great !" 

Van  Bibber  put  his  cigar  into  a  tumbler  and 
stepped  out  into  the  wings.  They  were  crowded 
on  both  sides  of  the  stage  with  the  members  of 
the  company  ;  the  girls  were  tiptoeing,  with  their 
hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the  men,  and  making 
futile  little  leaps  into  the  air  to  get  a  better  view, 
and  others  were  resting  on  one  knee  that  those 
behind  might  see  over  their  shoulders.  There 
were  over  a  dozen  children  before  the  footlights, 
with  the  prima  donna  in  the  centre.  She  was 
singing  the  verses  of  a  song,  and  they  were  fol- 
lowing her  movements,  and  joining  in  the  chorus 
with  high  piping  voices.  They  seemed  entirely 
too  much  at  home  and  too  self-conscious  to  please 
Van  Bibber ;  but  there  was  one  exception.  The 
one  exception  was  the  smallest  of  them,  a  very, 
very  little  girl,  with  long  auburn  hair  and  black 
eyes  ;    such  a  very  little  girl  that  every  one  in 


10  HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

the  house  looked  at  her  first,  and  then  looked  at 
no  one  else.  She  was  apparently  as  unconcerned 
to  all  about  her,  excepting  the  pretty  prima  donlia, 
as  though  she  were  by  a  piano  at  home  practising 
a  singing  lesson.  She  seemed  to  think  it  was 
some  new  sort  of  a  game.  When  the  prima  donna 
raised  her  arms,  the  child  raised  hers  ;  when  the 
prima  donna  courtesied,  she  stumbled  into  one, 
and  straightened  herself  just  in  time  to  get  the 
curls  out  of  her  eyes,  and  to  see  that  the  prima 
donna  was  laughing  at  her,  and  to  smile  cheer- 
fully back,  as  if  to  say,  "  We  are  doing  our  best 
anyway,  aren't  we?"  She  had  big,  gentle  eyes 
and  two  wonderful  dimples,  and  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  dancing  and  the  singing  her  eyes 
laughed  and  flashed,  and  the  dimples  deepened 
and  disappeared  and  reappeared  again.  She  was 
as  happy  and  innocent  looking  as  though  it  were 
nine  in  the  morning  and  she  were  playing  school 
at  a  kindergarten.  From  all  over  the  house  the 
women  were  murmuring  their  delight,  and  the 
men  were  laughing  and  pulling  their  mustaches 
and  nudging  each  other  to  "look  at  the  littlest 
one." 

The  girls  in  the  wings  were  rapturous  in  their 
enthusiasm,  and  were  calling  her  absurdly  extrava- 
gant titles  of  endearment,  and  making  so  much 
noise  that  Kripps  stopped  grinning  at  her  from 
the  entrance,  and  looked  back  over  his  shoulder 
as  he  looked  when  he  threatened  fines  and  calls 
for  early  rehearsal.     And  when  she  had  finished 


HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE  11 

finally,  and  the  prima  donna  and  the  children  ran 
off  together,  there  was  a  roar  from  the  house  that 
went  to  Lester's  head  like  wine,  and  seemed  to 
leap  clear  across  the  footlights  and  drag  the  chil- 
dren back  again. 

"  That  settles  it !"  cried  Lester,  in  a  suppressed 
roar  of  triumph.  "  I  knew  that  child  would  catch 
them." 

There  were  four  encores,  and  then  the  children 
and  Elise  Broughten,  the  pretty  prima  donna, 
came  off  jubilant  and  happy,  with  the  Littlest 
Girl's  arms  full  of  flowers,  which  the  manage- 
ment had  with  kindly  forethought  prepared  for 
the  prima  donna,  but  which  that  delightful  young 
person  and  the  delighted  leader  of  the  orchestra 
had  passed  over  to  the  little  girl. 

"Well,"  gasped  Miss  Broughten,  as  she  came 
up  to  Van  Bibber  laughing,  and  with  one  hand  on 
her  side  and  breathing  very  quickly,  "will  you 
kindly  tell  me  who  is  the  leading  woman  now? 
Am  I  the  prima  donna,  or  am  I  not  ?  I  wasn't  in 
it,  was  I  ?" 

"  You  were  not,"  said  Van  Bibber. 

He  turned  from  the  pretty  prima  donna  and 
hunted  up  the  wardrobe  woman,  and  told  her  he 
wanted  to  meet  the  Littlest  Girl.  And  the  ward- 
robe woman,  who  was  fluttering  wildly  about,  and 
as  delighted  as  though  they  were  all  her  own  chil- 
dren, told  him  to  come  into  the  property-room, 
where  the  children  were,  and  which  had  been 
changed  into  a  dressing-room  that  they  might  be 


12  HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE 

by  themselves.  The  six  little  girls  were  in  six  dif- 
ferent states  of  dishabille,  but  they  were  too  little 
to  mind  that,  and  Van  Bibber  was  too  polite  to 
observe  it. 

"  This  is  the  little  girl,  sir,"  said  the  wardrobe 
woman,  excitedly,  proud  at  being  the  means  of 
bringing  together  two  such  prominent  people. 
"Her  name  is  Madeline.  Speak  to  the  gentle- 
man, Madeline  ;  he  wants  to  tell  you  what  a  great 
big  hit  youse  made." 

The  little  girl  was  seated  on  one  of  the  cush- 
ions of  a  double  throne  so  high  from  the  ground 
that  the  young  woman  Avho  was  pulling  off  the 
child's  silk  stockings  and  putting  w^oollen  ones  on 
in  their  place  did  so  without  stooping.  The  young 
woman  looked  at  Van  Bibber  and  nodded  some- 
what doubtfully  and  ungraciously,  and  Van  Bib- 
ber turned  to  the  little  girl  in  preference.  The 
young  woman's  face  was  one  of  a  type  that  was 
too  familiar  to  be  pleasant. 

He  took  the  Littlest  Girl's  small  hand  in  his  and 
shook  it  solemnly,  and  said,  "I  am  very  glad  to 
know  you.  Can  I  sit  up  here  beside  you,  or  do 
you  rule  alone  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am — yes,  sir,"  answered  the  little  girl. 

Van  Bibber  put  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  the 
throne  and  vaulted  up  beside  the  girl,  and  pulled 
out  the  flower  in  his  button-hole  and  gave  it  to 
her, 

"  Now,"  prompted  the  wardrobe  woman,  "  what 
do  you  say  to  the  gentleman  ?" 


HER   FIRST    APPEARANCE  13 

*'  Thank  yon,  sir,"  stammered  the  little  girl. 

'*  She  is  not  much  used  to  gentlemen's  society," 
explained  the  woman  who  was  pulling  on  the 
stockings. 

"I  see,"  said  Van  Bibber.  He  did  not  know 
exactly  what  to  say  next.  And  yet  he  wanted  to 
talk  to  the  child  very  much,  so  much  more  than 
he  generally  wanted  to  talk  to  most  young  women, 
who  showed  no  hesitation  in  talking  to  him.  With 
them  he  had  no  difficulty  whatsoever.  There  was 
a  doll  lying  on  the  top  of  a  chest  near  them,  and 
he  picked  this  up  and  surveyed  it  critically.  "  Is 
this  your  doll?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Madeline,  pointing  to  one  of  the 
children,  who  was  much  taller  than  herself  ;  "  it's 
'at  'ittle  durl's.     My  doll  he's  dead." 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  Van  Bibber.  He  made  a  men- 
tal note  to  get  a  live  one  in  the  morning,  and  then 
he  said:  "That's  very  sad.  But  dead  dolls  do 
come  to  life." 

The  little  girl  looked  up  at  him,  and  surveyed 
him  intently  and  critically,  and  then  smiled,  with 
the  dimples  showing,  as  much  as  to  say  that  she 
understood  him  and  approved  of  him  entirely. 
Van  Bibber  answered  this  sign  language  by 
taking  Madeline's  hand  in  his  and  asking  her  how 
she  liked  being  a  great  actress,  and  how  soon  she 
would  begin  to  storm  because  that  photographer 
hadn't  sent  the  proofs.  The  young  woman  under- 
stood this,  and  deigned  to  smile  at  it,  but  Made- 
line yawned  a  very  polite  and  sleepy  yawn,  and 


14  HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE 

closed  her  eyes.  Van  Bibber  moved  up  closer, 
and  she  leaned  over  until  her  bare  shoulder 
touched  his  arm,  and  while  the  woman  buttoned 
on  her  absurdly  small  shoes,  she  let  her  curly- 
head  fall  on  his  elbow  and  rest  there.  Any  num- 
ber of  people  had  shown  confidence  in  Van  Bib- 
ber— not  in  that  form  exactly,  but  in  the  same 
spirit — and  though  he  was  used  to  being  trusted, 
he  felt  a  sharp  thrill  of  pleasure  at  the  touch  of 
the  child's  head  on  his  arm,  and  in  the  warm  clasp 
of  her  fingers  around  his.  And  he  was  conscious 
of  a  keen  sense  of  pity  and  sorrow  for  her  rismg 
in  him,  which  he  crushed  by  thinking  that  it  was 
entirely  wasted,  and  that  the  child  w^as  probably 
perfectly  and  ignorantly  happy. 

"  Look  at  that,  now,"  said  the  wardrobe  woman, 
catching  sight  of  the  child's  closed  eyelids  ;  "just 
look  at  the  rest  of  the  little  dears,  all  that  excited 
they  can't  stand  still  to  get  their  hats  on,  and  she 
just  as  unconcerned  as  you  please,  and  after  mak- 
ing the  hit  of  the  piece,  too." 

"  She's  not  used  to  it,  you  see,"  said  the  young 
woman,  knowingly ;  "  she  don't  know  what  it 
means.     It's  just  that  much  play  to  her." 

This  last  was  said  with  a  questioning  glance  at 
Van  Bibber,  in  whom  she  still  feared  to  find  the 
disguised  agent  of  a  Children's  Aid  Society.  Van 
Bibber  only  nodded  in  reply,  and  did  not  answer 
her,  because  he  found  he  could  not  very  well,  for 
he  was  looking  a  long  way  ahead  at  what  the 
future  was  to  bring  to  the  confiding  little  being  at 


HER   FIRST    APPEARANCE  15 

his  side,  and  of  the  evil  knowledge  and  tempta- 
tions that  would  mar  the  beauty  of  her  quaintly 
sweet  face,  and  its  strange  mark  of  gentleness  and 
refinement.  Outside  he  could  hear  his  friend  Les- 
ter shouting  the  refrain  of  his  new  topical  song, 
and  the  laughter  and  the  hand-clapping  came  iu 
through  the  wings  and  open  door,  broken  but  tu- 
multuous. 

"Does  she  come  of  professional  people?"  Van 
Bibber  asked,  dropping  into  the  vernacular.  He 
spoke  softly,  not  so  much  that  he  might  not  dis- 
turb the  child,  but  that  she  might  not  understand 
what  he  said. 

"Yes,"  the  woman  answered,  shortly,  and  bent 
her  head  to  smooth  out  the  child's  stage  dress 
across  her  knees. 

Van  Bibber  touched  the  little  girl's  head  with 
his  hand  and  found  that  she  was  asleep,  and  so  let 
his  hand  rest  there,  with  the  curls  between  his 
fingers.  "  Are — are  you  her  mother  ?"  he  asked, 
with  a  slight  inclination  of  his  head.  He  felt 
quite  confident  she  was  not ;  at  least,  he  hoped 
not. 

The  woman  shook  her  head.     "No,"  she  said. 

"  Who  is  her  mother  ?" 

The  woman  looked  at  the  sleeping  child  and 
then  up  at  him  almost  defiantly.  "  Ida  Clare  was 
her  mother,"  she  said. 

Van  Bibber's  protecting  hand  left  the  child  as 
suddenly  as  though  something  had  burned  it,  and 
he  drew  back  so  quickly  that  her  head  slipped 


16  HER   FIRST    APPEARANCE 

from  his  arm,  and  she  awoke  and  raised  her  eyes 
and  looked  up  at  him  questioningly.  He  looked 
back  at  her  with  a  glance  of  the  strangest  con- 
cern and  of  the  deepest  pity.  Then  he  stooped 
and  drew  her  towards  him  very  tenderly,  put  her 
head  back  in  the  corner  of  his  arm,  and  watched 
her  in  silence  while  she  smiled  drowsily  and  went 
to  sleep  again. 

"  And  who  takes  care  of  her  now  ?"  he  asked. 

The  woman  straightened  herself  and  seemed  re- 
lieved. She  saw  that  the  stranger  had  recognized 
the  child's  pedigree  and  knew  her  story,  and  that 
he  was  not  going  to  comment  on  it.  "  I  do,"  she 
said.  "After  the  divorce  Ida  came  to  me,"  she 
said,  speaking  more  freely.  "  I  used  to  be  in  her 
company  when  she  was  doing  *  Aladdin,'  and  then 
when  I  left  the  stage  and  started  to  keep  an  act- 
ors' boarding-house,  she  came  to  me.  She  lived 
on  with  us  a  year,  until  she  died,  and  she  made 
me  the  guardian  of  the  child.  I  train  children  for 
the  stage,  you  know,  me  and  my  sister,  Ada  Dyer; 
you've  heard  of  her,  I  guess.  The  courts  pay  us 
for  her  keep,  but  it  isn't  much,  and  I'm  expecting 
to  get  what  I  spent  on  her  from  what  she  makes 
on  the  stage.  Two  of  them  other  children  are  my 
pupils ;  but  they  can't  touch  Madie.  She  is  a  bet- 
ter dancer  an'  singer  than  any  of  them.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  Society  keeping  her  back,  she 
would  have  been  on  the  stage  two  years  ago.  She's 
great,  she  is.    She'll  be  just  as  good  as  her  mother 


HER   FIRST    APPEARANCE  17 

Van  Bibber  gave  a  little  start,  and  winced  vis- 
ibly, but  turned  it  off  into  a  cough.  "And  her 
father,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,    "  does  he — " 

*'  Her  father,"  said  the  woman,  tossing  back  her 
head,  "  he  looks  after  himself,  he  does.  We*  don't 
ask  no  favors  of  him.  She'll  get  along  without 
him  or  his  folks,  thank  you.  Call  him  a  gentle- 
man ?  Nice  gentleman  he  is  !"  Then  she  stopped 
abruptly.  "  I  guess,  though,  you  know  him,"  she 
added.     "  Perhaps  he's  a  friend  of  yourn  ?" 

*'I  just  know  him,"  said  Van  Bibber,  wearily. 

He  sat  with  the  child  asleep  beside  him  while 
the  woman  turned  to  the  others  and  dressed  them 
for  the  third  act.  She  explained  that  Madie 
would  not  appear  in  the  last  act,  only  the  two 
larger  girls,  so  she  let  her  sleep,  with  the  cape  of 
Van  Bibber's  cloak  around  her. 

Van  Bibber  sat  there  for  several  long  minutes 
thinking,  and  then  looked  up  quickly,  and  dropped 
his  eyes  again  as  quickly,  and  said,  with  an  effort 
to  speak  quietly  and  unconcernedly  :  "  If  the  lit- 
tle girl  is  not  on  in  this  act,  would  you  mind  if  I 
took  her  home  ?  I  have  a  cab  at  the  stage-door, 
and  she's  so  sleepy  it  seems  a  pity  to  keep  her  up. 
The  sister  you  spoke  of  or  some  one  could  put  her 
to  bed." 

"Yes,"  the  woman  said,  doubtfully,  "Ada's 
home.  Yes,  you  can  take  her  around,  if  you 
want  to." 

She  gave  him  the  address,  and  he  sprang  down 
to  the  floor,  and  gathered  the  child  up  in  his  arms 


18  HEE   FIRST    APPEAKANCE 

and  stepped  out  on  the  stage.  The  prima  donna 
had  the  centre  of  it  to  herself  at  that  moment, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  company  were  waiting  to 
go  on  ;  but  when  they  saw  the  little  girl  in  Van 
Bibber's  arms  they  made  a  rush  at  her,  and  the 
girls  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  with  a  great  show 
of  rapture  and  with  many  gasps  of  delight. 

"  Don't,"  said  Van  Bibber,  he  could  not  tell  just 
why.     "Don't." 

"  Why  not  ?"  asked  one  of  the  girls,  looking  up 
at  him  sharply. 

"She  was  asleep;  you've  wakened  her,"  he  said, 
gently. 

But  he  knew  that  was  not  the  reason.  He 
stepped  into  the  cab  at  the  stage  entrance,  and 
put  the  child  carefully  down  in  one  corner.  Then 
he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  to  see  that  there 
was  no  one  near  enough  to  hear  him,  and  said  to 
the  driver,  "  To  the  Berkeley  Flats,  on  Fifth  Ave- 
nue." He  picked  the  child  up  gently  in  his  arms 
as  the  carriage  started,  and  sat  looking  out 
thoughtfully  and  anxiously  as  they  flashed  past 
the  lighted  shop-windows  on  Broadway.  He  was 
far  from  certain  of  this  errand,  and  nervous  with 
doubt,  but  he  reassured  himself  that  he  was  acting 
on  impulse,  and  that  his  impulses  were  so  often 
good.  The  hall-boy  at  the  Berkeley  said,  yes,  Mr. 
Caruthers  was  in,  and  Van  Bibber  gave  a  quick 
sigh  of  relief.  He  took  this  as  an  omen  that  his 
impulse  was  a  good  one.  The  young  English  ser- 
vant who  opened  the  hall  door  to  Mr.  Caruthers's 


BUT  HE  KNEW  THAT  WAS  NOT  THE  REASON. 


HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE  19 

apartment  suppressed  his  surprise  with  an  ejffort, 
and  watched  Van  Bibber  with  alarm  as  he  laid  the 
child  on  the  divan  in  the  hall,  and  pulled  a  covert 
coat  from  the  rack  to  throw  over  her. 

"  Just  say  Mr.  Van  Bibber  would  like  to  see 
him,"  he  said,  "and  you  need  not  speak  of  the 
little  girl  having  come  with  me." 

She  was  still  sleeping,  and  Van  Bibber  turned 
down  the  light  in  the  hall,  and  stood  looking  down 
at  her  gravely  while  the  servant  went  to  speak  to 
his  master. 

"  Will  you  come  this  way,  please,  sir  ?"  he  said. 

"  You  had  better  stay  out  here,"  said  Van  Bib- 
ber, "  and  come  and  tell  me  if  she  wakes," 

Mr.  Caruthers  was  standing  by  the  mantel  over 
the  empty  fireplace,  wrapped  in  a  long,  loose 
dressing-gown  which  he  was  tying  around  him  as 
Van  Bibber  entered.  He  was  partly  undressed, 
and  had  been  just  on  the  point  of  getting  into 
bed.  Mr.  Caruthers  was  a  tall,  handsome  man, 
with  dark  reddish  hair,  turning  below  the  temples 
into  gray;  his  moustache  was  quite  white,  and  his 
eyes  and  face  showed  the  signs  of  either  dissipa- 
tion or  of  great  trouble,  or  of  both.  But  even  in 
the  formless  dressing-gown  he  had  the  look  and 
the  confident  bearing  of  a  gentleman,  or,  at  least, 
of  the  man  of  the  world.  The  room  was  very  rich- 
looking,  and  was  filled  with  the  medley  of  a  man's 
choice  of  good  paintings  and  fine  china,  and  pa- 
pered with  irregular  rows  of  original  drawings 
and  signed  etchings.     The  windows  were  open, 


20  HER    FIRST    APPEARANCE 

and  the  lights  were  turned  very  low,  so  that  Van 
Bibber  could  see  the  many  gas  lamps  and  the  dark 
roofs  of  Broadway  and  the  Avenue  where  they 
crossed  a  few  blocks  off,  and  the  bunches  of  light 
on  the  Madison  Square  Garden,  and  to  the  lights 
on  the  boats  of  the  East  River.  From  below  in 
the  streets  came  the  rattle  of  hurrying  omnibuses 
and  the  rush  of  the  hansom  cabs.  If  Mr.  Caruth- 
ers  Avas  surprised  at  this  late  visit,  he  hid  it,  and 
came  forward  to  receive  his  caller  as  if  his  pres- 
ence were  expected. 

"  Excuse  my  costume,  will  you  ?"  he  said.  "  I 
turned  in  rather  early  to-night,  it  was  so  hot."  He 
pointed  to  a  decanter  and  some  soda  bottles  on 
the  table  and  a  bowl  of  ice,  and  asked,  "  Will  j^ou 
have  some  of  this  ?"  And  w^hile  he  opened  one 
of  the  bottles,  he  watched  Van  Bibber's  face  as 
though  he  w^ere  curious  to  have  him  explain  the 
object  of  his  visit. 

"  No,  I  think  not,  thank  you,"  said  the  younger 
man.  He  touched  his  forehead  with  his  handker- 
chief nervously.     ''  Yes,  it  is  hot,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Caruthers  filled  a  glass  with  ice  and  brandy 
and  soda,  and  walked  back  to  his  place  by  the 
mantel,  on  which  he  rested  his  arm,  while  he 
clinked  the  ice  in  the  glass  and  looked  down  into 
it. 

"I  was  at  the  first  night  of  *The  Sultana'  this 
evening,"  said  Van  Bibber,  slowly  and  uncer- 
tainly. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  assented  the  elder  man,  politely,  and 


HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE  21 

tasting  his  drink.  "Lester's  new  piece.  Was  it 
any  good  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "Yes,  I 
think  it  was.  I  didn't  see  it  from  the  front. 
There  were  a  lot  of  children  in  it — ^little  ones; 
they  danced  and  sang,  and  made  a  great  hit.  One 
of  them  had  never  been  on  the  stage  before.  It 
was  her  first  appearance." 

He  was  turning  one  of  the  glasses  around  be- 
tween his  fingers  as  he  spoke.  He  stopped,  and 
poured  out  some  of  the  soda,  and  drank  it  down 
in  a  gulp,  and  then  continued  turning  the  empty 
glass  between  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "  that  it  is  a  great 
pity."  He  looked  up  interrogatively  at  the  other 
man,  but  Mr.  Caruthers  met  his  glance  without 
any  returning  show  of  interest.  "  I  say,"  repeat- 
ed Van  Bibber — "I  say  it  seems  a  pity  that  a 
child  like  that  should  be  allowed  to  go  on  in  that 
business.  A  grown  woman  can  go  into  it  with 
her  eyes  open,  or  a  girl  who  has  had  decent  train- 
ing can  too.  But  it's  different  with  a  child.  She 
has  no  choice  in  the  matter ;  they  don't  ask  her 
permission  ;  and  she  isn't  old  enough  to  know 
what  it  means  ;  and  she  gets  used  to  it  and  fond 
of  it  before  she  grows  to  know  what  the  danger 
is.  And  then  it's  too  late.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
if  there  was  any  one  who  had  a  right  to  stop  it,  it 
would  be  a  very  good  thing  to  let  that  person 
know  about  her  —  about  this  child,  I  mean  ;  the 
one  who  made  the  hit — before  it  was  too  late.    It 


22  HER   FIRST   ArPEARANCE 

seems  to  me  a  responsibility  I  wouldn't  care  to 
take  myself.  I  wouldn't  care  to  think  that  I  had 
the  chance  to  stop  it,  and  had  let  the  chance  go 
by.  You  know  what  the  life  is,  and  what  the 
temptation  a  woman — "  Yan  Bibber  stopped  with 
a  gasp  of  concern,  and  added,  hurriedly,  "  I  mean 
we  all  know — every  man  knows." 

Mr.  Caruthers  was  looking  at  him  with  his  lips 
pressed  closely  together,  and  his  eyebrows  drawn 
into  the  shape  of  the  letter  Y.  He  leaned  for- 
ward, and  looked  at  Yan  Bibber  intently. 

"What  is  all  this  about?"  he  asked.  "Did 
you  come  here,  Mr.  Yan  Bibber,  simply  to  tell 
me  this  ?  What  have  you  to  do  with  it  ?  What 
have  I  to  do  with  it  ?     Why  did  you  come  ?" 

"  Because  of  the  child." 

"What  child?" 

"Your  child,"  said  Yan  Bibber. 

Young  Yan  Bibber  was  quite  prepared  for  an 
outbreak  of  some  sort,  and  mentally  braced  him- 
self to  receive  it.  He  rapidly  assured  himself 
that  this  man  had  every  reason  to  be  angry,  and 
that  he,  if  he  meant  to  accomplish  anything,  had 
every  reason  to  be  considerate  and  patient.  So 
he  faced  Mr.  Caruthers  with  shoulders  squared, 
as  though  it  were  a  physical  shock  he  had  to  stand 
against,  and  in  consequence  he  was  quite  unpre- 
pared for  what  followed.  For  Mr.  Caruthers 
raised  his  face  without  a  trace  of  feeling  in  it, 
and,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  glass  in  his 
hand,  set  it  carefully  down  on  the  mantel  beside 


HER   FIRST  APPEARANCE  23 

him,  and  girded  himself  about  with  the  rope  of 
his  robe.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  in  a  tone  of 
quiet  politeness. 

"  Mr.  Van  Bibber,"  he  began,  "  you  are  a  very 
brave  young  man.  You  have  dared  to  say  to  me 
what  those  who  are  my  best  friends — what  even 
my  own  family  would  not  care  to  say.  They  are 
afraid  it  might  hurt  me,  I  suppose.  They  have 
some  absurd  regard  for  ray  feelings ;  they  hesi- 
tate to  touch  upon  a  subject  which  in  no  way 
concerns  them,  and  which  they  know  must  be 
very  painful  to  me.  But  you  have  the  courage 
of  your  convictions  ;  you  have  no  compunctions 
about  tearing  open  old  wounds  ;  and  you  come 
here,  unasked  and  uninvited,  to  let  me  know  what 
you  think  of  my  conduct,  to  let  me  understand 
that  it  does  not  agree  with  your  own  ideas  of 
what  I  ought  to  do,  and  to  tell  me  how  I,  who 
am  old  enough  to  be  your  father,  should  behave. 
You  have  rushed  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread, 
Mr.  Van  Bibber,  to  show  me  the  error  of  my 
ways.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  thank  you  for  it ; 
but  I  have  always  said  that  it  is  not  the  wicked 
people  who  are  to  be  feared  in  this  world,  or  who 
do  the  most  harm.  We  know  them  ;  we  can  pre- 
pare for  them,  and  checkmate  them.  It  is  the 
well-meaning  fool  who  makes  all  the  trouble.  For 
no  one  knows  him  until  he  discloses  himself,  and 
the  mischief  is  done  before  he  can  be  stopped.  I 
think,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  that  you 
have  demonstrated  my  theory  pretty  thoroughly. 


24  HER   FIRST    APPEARANCE 

and  have  done  about  as  mucli  needless  harm  for 
one  evening  as  you  can  possibly  wish.  And  so, 
if  you  will  excuse  me,"  he  continued,  sternly,  and 
moving  from  his  place,  "  I  will  ask  to  say  good- 
night, and  will  request  of  you  that  you  grow  older 
and  wiser  and  much  more  considerate  before  you 
come  to  see  me  again." 

Van  Bibber  had  flushed  at  Mr.  Caruthers's  first 
words,  and  had  then  grown  somewhat  pale,  and 
straightened  himself  visibly.  He  did  not  move 
when  the  elder  man  had  finished,  but  cleared  his 
throat,  and  then  spoke  with  some  little  difficulty. 
"It  is  very  easy  to  call  a  man  a  fool,"  he  said, 
slowly,  "  but  it  is  much  harder  to  be  called  a  fool 
and  not  to  throw  the  other  man  out  of  the  win- 
dow. But  that,  you  see,  would  not  do  any  good, 
and  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  first.  I  am 
quite  clear  in  my  own  mind  as  to  my  position,  and 
I  am  not  going  to  allow  anything  you  have  said 
or  can  say  to  annoy  me  much  until  I  am  through. 
There  will  be  time  enough  to  resent  it  then.  I 
am  quite  well  aware  that  I  did  an  unconventional 
thing  in  coming  here — a  bold  thing  or  a  foolish 
thing,  as  you  choose — but  the  situation  is  pretty 
bad,  and  I  did  as  I  would  have  wished  to  be  done 
by  if  I  had  had  a  child  going  to  the  devil  and 
didn't  know  it.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  learn 
of  it  even  from  a  stranger.  However,"  he  said, 
smiling  grimly,  and  pulling  his  cape  about  him, 
"there  are  other  kindly  disposed  people  in  the 
world  besides  fathers.    There  is  an  a^mt,  perhaps, 


HEE   FIRST   APPEARANCE  25 

or  an  uncle  or  two;  and  sometimes,  even  to-day, 
there  is  the  chance  Samaritan." 

Van  Bibber  picked  up  his  high  hat  from  the 
table,  looked  into  it  critically,  and  settled  it  on 
his  head.  "  Good  -  night,"  he  said,  and  walked 
slowly  towards  the  door.  He  had  his  hand  on 
the  knob,  when  Mr.  Caruthers  raised  his  head. 

"Wait  just  one  minute,  please,  Mr.  Van  Bib- 
ber ?"  asked  Mr.  Caruthers. 

Van  Bibber  stopped  with  a  prompt  obedience 
which  would  have  led  one  to  conclude  that  he 
might  have  put  on  his  hat  only  to  precipitate 
matters. 

"Before  you  go,"  said  Mr.  Caruthers,  grudg- 
ingly, "  I  want  to  say — I  want  you  to  understand 
my  position." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Van  Bibber,  lightly, 
opening  the  door. 

"No,  it  is  not  all  right.  One  moment,  please. 
I  do  not  intend  that  you  shall  go  away  from  here 
with  the  idea  that  you  have  tried  to  do  me  a  ser- 
vice, and  that  I  have  been  unable  to  appreciate  it, 
and  that  you  are  a  much-abused  and  much-misun- 
derstood young  man.  Since  you  have  done  me 
the  honor  to  make  my  affairs  your  business,  I 
would  prefer  that  you  should  understand  them 
fully.  I  do  not  care  to  have  you  discuss  my  con- 
duct at  clubs  and  afternoon  teas  with  young  wom- 
en until  you — " 

Van  Bibber  drew  in  his  breath  sharply,  with  a 
peculiar  whistling  sound,  and  opened  and  shut  his 


26  HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE 

hands.  "Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that  if  I  were  you," 
he  said,  simply. 

"  I  beg  3'our  pardon,"  the  older  man  said,  quick- 
ly. "  That  was  a  mistake.  I  was  wrong.  I  beg 
your  pardon.  But  you  have  tried  me  very  sorely. 
You  have  intruded  upon  a  private  trouble  that 
you  ought  to  know  must  be  very  painful  to  me. 
But  I  believe  you  meant  well.  I  know  you  to  be 
a  gentleman,  and  I  am  willing  to  think  you  acted 
on  impulse,  and  that  you  will  see  to-morrow  what 
a  mistake  you  have  made.  It  is  not  a  thing  I  talk 
about ;  I  do  not  speak  of  it  to  my  friends,  and 
they  are  far  too  considerate  to  speak  of  it  to  me. 
But  you  have  put  me  on  the  defensive.  You  have 
made  me  out  more  or  less  of  a  brute,  and  I  don't 
intend  to'be  so  far  misunderstood.  There  are  two 
sides  to  every  story,  and  there  is  something  to  be 
said  about  this,  even  for  me." 

He  walked  back  to  his  place  beside  the  mantel, 
and  put  his  shoulders  against  it,  and  faced  Van 
Bibber,  with  his  fingers  twisted  in  the  cord  around 
his  waist. 

"  When  I  married,"  said  Mr.  Caruthers,  "  I  did 
so  against  the  wishes  of  my  people  and  the  advice 
of  all  my  friends.  You  know  all  about  that.  God 
help  us  !  who  doesn't?"  he  added,  bitterly.  "It 
was  very  rich,  rare  reading  for  you  and  for  every 
one  else  who  saw  the  daily  papers,  and  we  gave 
them  all  they  wanted  of  it.  I  took  her  out  of  that 
life  and  married  her  because  I  believed  she  was  as 
good  a  woman  as  any  of  those  who  had  never  had 


•"even  to-day,  there  is  the  chance  SAMARITAN. 


HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE  27 

to  work  for  their  living,  and  I  was  bound  tbat 
ray  friends  and  your  friends  should  recognize  her 
and  respect  her  as  ray  wife  had  a  right  to  be  re- 
spected ;  and  I  took  her  abroad  that  I  might 
give  all  you  sensitive,  fine  people  a  chance  to 
get  used  to  the  idea  of  being  polite  to  a  woman 
who  had  once  been  a  burlesque  actress.  It  began 
over  there  in  Paris.  What  I  went  through  then 
no  one  knows ;  but  when  I  came  back — and  I 
would  never  have  come  back  if  she  had  not  made 
me  —  it  was  my  friends  I  had  to  consider,  and 
not  her.  It  was  in  the  blood ;  it  was  in  the  life 
she  had  led,  and  in  the  life  men  like  you  and 
me  had  taught  her  to  live.  And  it  had  to  come 
out." 

The  muscles  of  Mr.  Caruthers's  face  were  mov- 
ing, and  beyond  his  control ;  but  Van  Bibber  did 
not  see  this,  for  he  was  looking  intently  out  of 
the  window,  over  the  roofs  of  the  city. 

"She  had  every  chance  when  she  married  me 
that  a  woman  ever  had,"  continued  the  older  man. 
"It  only  depended  on  herself.  I  didn't  try  to 
make  a  housewife  of  her  or  a  drudge.  She  had 
all  the  healthy  excitement  and  all  the  money  she 
wanted,  and  she  had  a  home  here  ready  for  her 
whenever  she  was  tired  of  travelling  about  and 
wished  to  settle  down.  And  I  was — and  a  hus- 
band that  loved  her  as — she  had  everything.  Ev- 
erything that  a  man's  whole  thought  and  love  and 
raoney  could  bring  to  her.  And  you  know  what 
she  did." 


28  HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE 

He  looked  at  Van  Bibber,  but  Van  Bibber's 
eyes  were  still  turned  towards  the  open  window 
and  the  night. 

v"  And  after  the  divorce — and  she  was  free  to  go 
where  she  pleased,  and  to  live  as  she  pleased  and 
with  whom  she  pleased,  without  bringing  disgrace 
on  a  husband  who  honestly  loved  her — I  swore  to 
my  God  that  I  would  never  see  her  nor  her  child 
again.  And  I  never  saw  her  again,  not  even  when 
she  died.  I  loved  the  mother,  and  she  deceived 
me  and  disgraced  me  and  broke  my  heart,  and  I 
only  wish  she  had  killed  me  ;  and  I  was  beginning 
to  love  her  child,  and  I  vowed  she  should  not  live 
to  trick  me  too.  I  had  suffered  as  no  man  I  know 
had  suffered  ;  in  a  way  a  boy  like  you  cannot  un- 
derstand, and  that  no  one  can  understand  who  has 
not  gone  to  hell  and  been  forced  to  live  after  it. 
And  was  I  to  go  through  that  again  ?  Was  I  to 
love  and  care  for  and  worship  this  child,  and  have 
her  grow  up  with  all  her  mother's  vanity  and  an- 
imal nature,  and  have  her  turn  on  me  some  day 
and  show  me  that  what  is  bred  in  the  bone  must  tell, 
and  that  I  was  a  fool  again  —  a  pitiful  fond  fool  ? 
I  could  not  trust  her.  I  can  never  trust  any  wom- 
an or  child  again,  and  least  of  all  that  woman's 
child.  She  is  as  dead  to  me  as  though  she  were 
buried  with  her  mother,  and  it  is  nothing  to  me 
what  she  is  or  what  her  life  is.  I  know  in  time 
what  it  will  be.  She  has  begun  earlier  than  I  had 
supposed,  that  is  all ;  but  she  is  nothing  to  me." 
The  man  stopped  and  turned  his  back  to  Van  Bib- 


HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE  29 

ber,  and  hid  bis  bead  in  bis  bands,  with  bis  elbows 
on  the  mantel-piece.  "  I  care  too  much,"  he  said. 
"  I  cannot  let  it  mean  anything  to  me  ;  when  I  do 
care,  it  means  so  much  more  to  me  than  to  other 
men.  They  may  pretend  to  laugh  and  to  forget 
and  to  outgrow  it,  but  it  is  not  so  with  me.  It 
means  too  much."  He  took  a  quick  stride  tow- 
ards one  of  the  arm-chairs,  and  threw  himself  into 
it.  "  Why,  man,"  he  cried,  "  I  loved  that  child's 
mother  to  the  day  of  her  death.  I  loved  that 
woman  then,  and,  God  help  me  !  I  love  that  wom- 
an still." 

He  covered  his  face  with  bis  bands,  and  sat 
leaning  forward  and  breathing  heavily  as  he 
rocked  himself  to  and  fro.  Van  Bibber  still 
stood  looking  gravely  out  at  the  lights  that  pick- 
eted the  black  surface  of  the  city.  He  was  to 
all  appearances  as  unmoved  by  the  outburst  of 
feeling  into  which  the  older  man  bad  been  sur- 
prised as  though  it  had  been  something  in  a  play. 
There  was  an  unbroken  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  then  it  was  Van  Bibber  who  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"I  came  here,  as  you  say,  on  impulse,"  he  said; 
*'  but  I  am  glad  I  came,  for  I  have  your  decisive 
answer  now  about  the  little  girl.  I  have  been 
thinking,"  he  continued,  slowly,  "since  you  have 
been  speaking,  and  before,  when  I  first  saw  her 
dancing  in  front  of  the  footlights,  when  I  did  not 
know  who  she  was,  that  I  could  give  up  a  horse 
or  two,  if  necessary,  and  support  this  child  instead. 


30  HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE 

Children  are  worth  more  than  horses,  and  a  man 
who  saves  a  soul,  as  it  says  " — he  flushed  slightly, 
and  looked  up  with  a  hesitating,  deprecatory  smile 
— "somewhere,  wipes  out  a  multitude  of  sins. 
And  it  may  be  I'd  like  to  try  and  get  rid  of  some 
of  mine.  I  know  just  where  to  send  her;  I  know 
the  very  place.  It's  down  in  Evergreen  Bay,  on 
Long  Island.  They  are  tenants  of  mine  there,  and 
very  nice  farm  sort  of  people,  who  w-ill  be  very 
good  to  her.  They  wouldn't  know  anything  about 
her,  and  she'd  forget  what  little  she  knows  of  this 
present  life  very  soon,  and  grow  up  with  the  other 
children  to  be  one  of  them ;  and  then,  when  she 
gets  older  and  becomes  a  young  lady,  she  could 
go  to  some  school — but  that's  a  bit  too  far  ahead 
to  plan  for  the  present ;  but  that's  what  I  am  go- 
ing to  do,  though,"  said  the  young  man,  confi- 
dently, and  as  though  speaking  to  himself.  "  That 
theatrical  boarding-house  person  could  be  bought 
off  easily  enough,"  he  went  on,  quickly,  "and 
Lester  won't  mind  letting  her  go  if  I  ask  it, 
and — and  that's  what  I'll  do.  As  you  say,  it's  a 
good  deal  of  an  experiment,  but  I  think  I'll  run 
the  risk." 

He  walked  quickly  to  the  door  and  disappeared 
in  the  hall,  and  then  came  back,  kicking  the  door 
open  as  he  returned,  and  holding  the  child  in  his 
arms. 

"This  is  she,"  he  said,  quietly.  He  did  not 
look  at  or  notice  the  father,  but  stood,  with  the 
child  asleep  in  the  bend  of  his  left  arm,  gazing 


HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE  31 

down  at  her.  "This  is  she,"  he  repeated  ;  "this 
is  your  child." 

There  was  something  cold  and  satisfied  in  Yan 
Bibber's  tone  and  manner,  as  though  he  were  con- 
gratulating himself  upon  the  engaging  of  a  new 
groom  ;  something  that  placed  the  father  entirely 
outside  of  it.  He  might  have  been  a  disinterest- 
ed looker-on. 

"She  will  need  to  be  fed  a  bit,"  Yan  Bibber 
ran  on,  cheerfully.  "  They  did  not  treat  her  very 
well,  I  fancy.  She  is  thin  and  peaked  and  tired- 
looking."  He  drew  up  the  loose  sleeve  of  her 
jacket,  and  showed  the  bare  forearm  to  the  light. 
He  put  his  thumb  and  little  finger  about  it,  and 
closed  them  on  it  gently.  "  It  is  very  thin,"  he 
said.  "And  under  her  eyes,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
paint,"  he  went  on,  mercilessly,  "you  could  see 
how  deep  the  lines  are.  This  red  spot  on  her 
cheek,"  he  said,  gravely,  "is  where  Mary  Yane 
kissed  her  to-night,  and  this  is  where  Alma  Stant- 
ley  kissed  her,  and  that  Lee  girl.  You  have  heard 
of  them,  perhaps.  They  will  never  kiss  her  again. 
She  is  going  to  grow  up  a  sweet,  fine,  beautiful 
woman — are  you  not?"  he  said,  gently  drawing 
the  child  higher  up  on  his  shoulder,  until  her  face 
touched  his,  and  still  keeping  his  eyes  from  the 
face  of  the  older  man.  "  She  does  not  look  like 
her  mother,"  he  said  ;  "she  has  her  father's  auburn 
hair  and  straight  nose  and  finer-cut  lips  and  chin. 
She  looks  very  much  like  her  father.  It  seems  a 
pity,"  he  added,  abruptly.     "She  will  grow  up," 


32  HER   FIRST    APPEARANCE 

he  went  on,  "without  knowing  him,  or  who  he 
is  —  or  was,  if  he  should  die.  She  will  never 
speak  with  him,  or  see  him^  or  take  his  hand. 
She  may  pass  him  some  day  on  the  street  and 
will  not  know  him,  and  he  will  not  know  her,  but 
she  will  grow  to  be  very  fond  and  to  be  very 
grateful  to  the  simple,  kind-hearted  old  people 
who  will  have  cared  for  her  when  she  was  a 
little  girl." 

The  child  in  his  arms  stirred,  shivered  slightly, 
and  awoke.  The  two  men  watched  her  breathless- 
ly, with  silent  intentness.  She  raised  her  head 
and  stared  around  the  unfamiliar  room  doubtfully, 
then  turned  to  where  her  father  stood,  looking  at 
him  a  moment,  and  passed  him  by;  and  then, 
looking  up  into  Van  Bibber's  face,  recognized 
him,  and  gave  a  gentle,  sleepy  smile,  and,  with  a 
sigh  of  content  and  confidence,  drew  her  arm  up 
closer  around  his  neck,  and  let  her  head  fall  back 
upon  his  breast. 

.  The  father  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  quick,  jeal- 
ous gasp  of  pain.  "Give  her  to  me!"  he  said, 
fiercely,  under  his  breath,  snatching  her  out  of 
Van  Bibber's  arms.  "  She  is  mine ;  give  her 
to  me  !" 

Van  Bibber  closed  the  door  gently  behind  him, 
and  went  jumping  down  the  winding  stairs  of  the 
Berkeley  three  steps  at  a  time. 

And  an  hour  later,  when  the  English  servant 
came  to  his  master's  door,  he  found  him  still  awake 
and  sitting  in  the  dark  by  the  open  window,  hold- 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE  33 

ing  something  in  his  arms  and  looking  out  over 
the  sleeping  city. 

"  James,"  he  said,  "  you  can  make  up  a  place 
for  me  here  on  the  lounge.     Miss  Caruthers,  my 
daughter,  will  sleep  in  my  room  to-night." 
3 


VAN  BIBBER'S  MAN-SERVANT 


YAIST  BIBBEK'S  MAIS' -  SEEV ANT 


VAN  BIBBER'S  man  Walters  was  the  envy 
and  admiration  of  his  friends.  He  was  Eng- 
lish, of  course,  and  he  had  been  trained  in  the 
household  of  the  Marquis  Bendinot,  and  had 
travelled,  in  his  younger  days,  as  the  valet  of 
young  Lord  Upton.  He  was  now  rather  well  on 
in  years,  although  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  say  just  how  old  he  was.  Walters  had  a  dig- 
nified and  repellent  air  about  him,  and  he  brushed 
his  hair  in  such  a  way  as  to  conceal  his  baldness. 

And  when  a  smirking,  slavish  youth  with  red 
cheeks  and  awkward  gestures  turned  up  in  Van 
Bibber's  livery,  his  friends  were  naturally  surprised, 
and  asked  how  he  had  come  to  lose  Walters.  Van 
Bibber  could  not  say  exactly,  at  least  he  could  not 
rightly  tell  whether  he  had  dismissed  Walters  or 
Walters  had  dismissed  himself.  The  facts  of  the 
unfortunate  separation  were  like  this  : 

Van  Bibber  gave  a  great  many  dinners  during 
the  course  of  the  season  at  Delmonico's,  dinners 
hardly  formal  enough  to  require  a  private  room, 
and  yet  too  important  to  allow  of  his  running  the 
risk  of  keeping  his  guests  standing  in  the  hall 


38 

waiting  for  a  vacant  table.  So  he  conceived  the 
idea  of  sending  Walters  over  about  half-past  six 
to  keep  a  table  for  him.  As  everybody  knows, 
you  can  hold  a  table  yourself  at  Delmonico's  for 
any  length  of  time  until  the  other  guests  arrive, 
but  the  rule  is  very  strict  about  servants.  Because, 
as  the  head  waiter  will  tell  you,  if  servants  were 
allowed  to  reserve  a  table  during  the  big  rush  at 
seven  o'clock,  why  not  messenger  boys  ?  And  it 
would  certainly  never  do  to  have  half  a  dozen 
large  tables  securely  held  by  minute  messengers 
while  the  hungry  and  impatient  waited  their  turn 
at  the  door. 

But  Walters  looked  as  much  like  a  gentleman  as 
did  many  of  the  diners  ;  and  when  he  seated  him- 
self at  the  largest  table  and  told  the  waiter  to 
serve  for  a  party  of  eight  or  ten ;  he  did  it  with 
such  an  air  that  the  head  waiter  came  over  him- 
self and  took  the  orders.  Walters  knew  quite  as 
much  about  ordering  a  dinner  as  did  his  master ; 
and  when  Van  Bibber  was  too  tired  to  make  out 
the  menu,  Walters  would  look  over  the  card  him- 
self and  order  the  proper  wines  and  side  dishes ; 
and  with  such  a  carelessly  severe  air  and  in  such 
a  masterly  manner  did  he  discharge  this  high 
function  that  the  waiters  looked  upon  him  with 
much  resi^ect. 

But  respect  even  from  your  equals  and  the  sat- 
isfaction of  having  your  fellow-servants  mistake 
you  for  a  member  of  the  Few  Hundred  are  not 
enough.     Walters  wanted  more.     He  wanted  the 


TAN  bibber's  man-seevant  39 

further  satisfaction  of  enjoying"  the  delicious 
dishes  he  had  ordered;  of  sitting  as  a  coequal  with 
the  people  for  whom  he  had  kept  a  place;  of  com- 
pleting the  deception  he  practised  only  up  to  the 
point  where  it  became  most  interesting. 

It  certainly  w^as  trying  to  have  to  rise  with  a 
subservient  and  unobtrusive  bow  and  glide  out 
unnoticed  by  the  real  guests  when  they  arrived  ; 
to  have  to  relinquish  the  feast  just  when  the  feast 
should  begin.  It  would  not  be  pleasant,  certain- 
ly, to  sit  for  an  hour  at  a  big  empty  table,  ordering 
dishes  fit  only  for  epicures,  and  then,  just  as  the 
waiters  bore  down  with  the  Little  Neck  clams,  so 
nicely  iced  and  so  cool  and  bitter-looking,  to  have 
to  rise  and  go  out  into  the  street  to  a  table  cP/idte 
around  the  corner. 

This  was  Walters's  state  of  mind  when  Mr.  Van 
Bibber  told  him  for  the  hundredth  time  to  keep  a 
table  for  him  for  three  at  Delmonico's.  Walters 
wrapped  his  severe  figure  in  a  frock-coat  and 
brushed  his  hair,  and  allowed  himself  the  dignity 
of  a  walking-stick.  He  would  have  liked  to  act 
as  a  substitute  in  an  evening  dress-suit,  but  Van 
Bibber  would  not  have  allowed  it.  So  Walters 
walked  over  to  Delmonico's  and  took  a  table  near 
a  window,  and  said  that  the  other  gentlemen  would 
arrive  later.  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch  and  or- 
dered the  dinner.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  dinner 
he  would  have  ordered  had  he  ordered  it  for  him- 
self at  some  one  else's  expense.  He  suggested 
Little  Neck  clams  first,  with  chablis,  and  pea-soup. 


40 

and  caviare  on  toast,  before  the  oyster  crabs,  with 
Johannisberger  Cabinet ;  then  an  entree  of  calves' 
brains  and  rice  ;  then  no  roast,  but  a  bird,  cold  as- 
paragus with  French  dressing,  Camembert  cheese, 
and  Turkish  coffee.  As  there  were  to  be  no  wom- 
en, he  omitted  the  sweets  and  added  three  other 
wines  to  follow  the  white  wine.  It  struck  him  as 
a  particularly  well-chosen  dinner,  and  the  longer 
he  sat  and  thought  about  it  the  more  he  wished 
he  were  to  test  its  excellence.  And  then  the  peo- 
ple all  around  him  were  so  bright  and  happy,  and 
seemed  to  be  enjoying  what  they  had  ordered 
with  such  a  refinement  of  zest  that  he  felt  he 
would  give  a  great  deal  could  he  just  sit  there  as 
one  of  them  for  a  brief  hour. 

At  that  moment  the  servant  deferentially  hand- 
ed him  a  note  which  a  messenger  boy  had  brought. 
It  said : 

* '  Dinner  off  called  out  town  send  clothes  and  things 
after  me  to  Young's  Boston.  Van  Bibber." 

Walter  rose  involuntarily,  and  then  sat  still  to 
think  about  it.  He  would  have  to  countermand 
the  dinner  which  he  had  ordered  over  half  an  hour 
before,  and  he  would  have  to  explain  who  he  was 
to  those  other  servants  who  had  always  regarded 
him  as  such  a  great  gentleman.  It  was  very 
hard. 

And  then  Walters  was  tempted.  He  was  a  very 
good  servant,  and  he  knew  his  place  as  only  an 
English  servant  can,  and  he  had  always  accepted 


41 

it,  but  to-night  he  was  tempted — and  he  fell.  He 
met  the  waiter's  anxious  look  with  a  grave  smile. 

"The  other  gentlemen  will  not  be  with  me  to- 
night," he  said,  glancing  at  the  note.  "  But  I  will 
dine  here  as  I  intended.    You  can  serve  for  one." 

That  was  perhaps  the  proudest  night  in  the 
liistory  of  Walters.  He  had  always  felt  that  he 
was  born  out  of  his  proper  sphere,  and  to-night 
he  was  assured  of  it.  He  was  a  little  nervous  at 
first,  lest  some  of  Yan  Bibber's  friends  should 
come  in  and  recognize  him  ;  but  as  the  dinner 
progressed  and  the  warm  odor  of  the  dishes 
touched  his  sense,  and  the  rich  wines  ran  through 
his  veins,  and  the  women  around  him  smiled  and 
bent  and  moved  like  beautiful  birds  of  beautiful 
plumage,  he  became  content,  grandly  content ; 
and  he  half  closed  his  eyes  and  imagined  he  was 
giving  a  dinner  to  everybody  in  the  place.  Vain 
and  idle  thoughts  came  to  him  and  went  again, 
and  he  eyed  the  others  about  him  calmly  and  with 
polite  courtesy,  as  they  did  him,  and  he  felt  that 
if  he  must  later  pay  for  this  moment  it  was  worth 
the  paying. 

Then  he  gave  the  waiter  a  couple  of  dollars  out 
of  his  own  pocket  and  wrote  Van  Bibber's  name 
on  the  check,  and  walked  in  state  into  the  cafe, 
where  he  ordered  a  green  mint  and  a  heavy,  black, 
and  expensive  cigar,  and  seated  himself  at  the 
window,  where  he  felt  that  he  should  always  have 
sat  if  the  fates  had  been  just.  The  smoke  hung 
in  light  clouds  about  him,  and  the  lights  shone  and 


42 

glistened  on  the  white  cloths  and  the  broad  shirt- 
fronts  of  the  smart  young  men  and  distinguished 
foreign-looking  older  men  at  the  surrounding  ta- 
bles. 

And  then,  in  the  midst  of  his  dreamings,  he 
heard  the  soft,  careless  drawl  of  his  master,  which 
sounded  at  that  time  and  in  that  place  like  the 
awful  voice  of  a  condemning  judge.  Van  Bibber 
pulled  out  a  chair  and  dropped  into  it.  His  side 
was  towards  Walters,  so  that  he  did  not  see  him. 
He  had  some  men  with  him,  and  he  was  explain- 
ing how  he  had  missed  his  train  and  had  come 
back  to  find  that  one  of  the  party  had  eaten  the 
dinner  without  him,  and  he  wondered  who  it  could 
be  ;  and  then  turning  easily  in  his  seat  he  saw 
Walters  with  the  green  mint  and  the  cigar,  trem- 
bling behind  a  copy  of  the  London  Graphic. 

"  Walters  !"  said  Van  Bibber,  "  what  are  you 
doing  here  ?" 

Walters  looked  his  guilt  and  rose  stiffly.  He 
began  with  a  feeble  "  If  you  please,  sir — " 

"  Go  back  to  my  rooms  and  wait  for  me  there," 
said  Van  Bibber,  who  was  too  decent  a  fellow  to 
scold  a  servant  in  public. 

Walters  rose  and  left  the  half-finished  cigar 
and  the  mint  with  the  ice  melting  in  it  on  the 
table.  His  one  evening  of  sublimity  was  over, 
and  he  walked  away,  bending  before  the  glance  of 
his  young  master  and  the  smiles  of  his  master's 
friends. 

When  Van  Bibber  came  back  he  found  on  his 


VAN  bibber's  man-servant  43 

dressing-table  a  note  from  Walters  stating  that 
he  could  not,  of  course,  expect  to  remain  longer 
in  his  service,  and  that  he  left  behind  him  the 
twenty-eight  dollars  which  the  dinner  had  cost. 

"  If  he  had  only  gone  off  with  all  my  waistcoats 
and  scarf-pins,  I'd  have  liked  it  better,"  said  Van 
Bibber,  "than  his  leaving  me  cash  for  infernal 
dinner.  Why,  a  servant  like  Walters  is  worth 
twenty-eight- dollar  dinners — twice  a  day." 


THE  HUNGRY  MAN  WAS  FED 


THE  HUI^GKY  MAN  WAS  FED 


YOUNG  Van  Bibber  broke  one  of  his  rules  of 
life  one  day  and  came  down-town.  This  un- 
usual journey  into  the  marts  of  trade  and  finance 
was  in  response  to  a  call  from  his  lawyer,  who 
wanted  his  signature  to  some  papers.  It  was  five 
years  since  Van  Bibber  had  been  south  of  the 
north  side  of  Washington  Square,  except  as  a 
transient  traveller  to  the  ferries  on  the  elevated 
road.  And  as  he  walked  through  the  City  Hall 
Square  he  looked  about  him  at  the  new  buildings 
in  the  air,  and  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  the 
streets,  with  as  much  interest  as  a  lately  arrived 
immigrant. 

He  rather  enjoyed  the  novelty  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  after  he  had  completed  his  business  at 
the  lawyer's  ofiice  he  tried  to  stroll  along  lower 
Broadway  as  he  did  on  the  Avenue. 

But  people  bumped  against  him,  and  carts  and 
drays  tried  to  run  him  down  when  he  crossed  the 
side  streets,  and  those  young  men  whom  he  knew 
seemed  to  be  in  a  great  hurry,  and  expressed  such 
amused  surprise  at  seeing  him  that  he  felt  very 
much  out  of  place  indeed.     And   so  he  decided 


48  THE    HUNGRY   MAN   WAS    FED 

to  get  back  to  his  club  window  and  its  quiet  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"Hello,  Van  Bibber,"  said  one  of  the  young 
men  who  were  speeding  by,  "  what  brings  you 
here  ?     Have  you  lost  your  way  ?" 

"  I  think  I  have,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "  If  you'll 
kindly  tell  me  how  I  can  get  back  to  civilization 
again,  be  obliged  to  you." 

"  Take  the  elevated  from  Park  Place,"  said  his 
friend  from  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  nodded  and 
dived  into  the  crowd. 

The  visitor  from  up-town  had  not  a  very  distinct 
idea  as  to  where  Park  Place  was,  but  he  struck  off 
Broadway  and  followed  the  line  of  the  elevated 
road  along  Church  Street.  It  was  at  the  corner  of 
Vesey  Street  that  a  miserable-looking,  dirty,  and 
red -eyed  object  stood  still  in  his  tracks  and 
begged  Van  Bibber  for  a  few  cents  to  buy  food. 
"  I've  come  all  the  way  from  Chicago,"  said  the 
Object,  "  and  I  haven't  tasted  food  for  twenty- 
four  hours." 

Van  Bibber  drew  away  as  though  the  Object 
had  a  contagious  disease  in  his  rags,  and  handed 
him  a  quarter  without  waiting  to  receive  the 
man's  blessing. 

"  Poor  devil !"  said  Van  Bibber.  "  Fancy  going 
without  dinner  all  day!"  He  could  not  fancy  this, 
though  he  tried,  and  the  impossibility  of  it  im- 
pressed him  so  much  that  he  amiably  determined 
to  go  back  and  hunt  up  the  Object  and  give  him 
more  money.     Van   Bibber's  ideas   of  a  dinner 


THE    HUNGEY   MAN   WAS   FED  49 

were  rather  exalted.  He  did  not  know  of  places 
where  a  quarter  was  good  for  a  "  square  meal,"  in- 
cluding "  one  roast,  three  vegetables,  and  pie."  He 
hardly  considered  a  quarter  a  sufficiently  large 
tip  for  the  waiter  who  served  the  dinner,  and 
decidedly  not  enough  for  the  dinner  itself.  He 
did  not  see  his  man  at  first,  and  when  he  did  the 
man  did  not  see  him.  Van  Bibber  watched  him 
stop  three  gentlemen,  two  of  whom  gave  him 
some  money,  and  then  the  Object  approached  Van 
Bibber  and  repeated  his  sad  tale  in  a  monotone. 
He  evidently  did  not  recognize  Van  Bibber,  and 
the  clubman  gave  him  a  half-dollar  and  walked 
away,  feeling  that  the  man  must  surely  have 
enough  by  this  time  with  which  to  get  something 
to  eat,  if  only  a  luncheon. 

This  retracing  of  his  footsteps  had  confused 
Van  Bibber,  and  he  made  a  complete  circuit 
of  the  block  before  he  discovered  that  he  had 
lost  his  bearings.  He  was  standing  just  where 
he  had  started,  and  gazing  along  the  line  of 
the  elevated  road,  looking  for  a  station,  when 
the  familiar  accents  of  the  Object  again  saluted 
him. 

When  Van  Bibber  faced  him  the  beggar  looked 
uneasy.  He  was  not  sure  whether  or  not  he  had 
approached  this  particular  gentleman  before,  but 
Van  Bibber  conceived  an  idea  of  much  subtlety, 
and  deceived  the  Object  by  again  putting  his 
hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  Nothing  to  eat  for  twenty-four  hours  !  Dear 
4 


60  THE    HUNGRY    MAN   WAS   FED 

me  !"  drawled  the  clubman,  sympathetically. 
"  Haven't  you  any  money,  either  ?" 

"Kot  a  cent,"  groaned  the  Object,  "an'  I'm 
just  faint  for  food,  sir.  S'help  me.  I  hate  to 
beg,  sir.  It  isn't  the  money  I  want,  it's  jest  food. 
I'm  starvin',  sir." 

"Well,"  said  Van  Bibber,  suddenly,  "if  it  is 
just  something  to  eat  you  want,  come  in  here  with 
me  and  I'll  give  you  your  breakfast."  But  the 
man  held  back  and  began  to  whine  and  complain 
that  they  wouldn't  let  the  likes  of  him  in  such  a 
line  place. 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  will,"  said  Van  Bibber,  glanc- 
ing at  the  bill  of  fare  in  front  of  the  place.  "  It 
seems  to  be  extremely  cheap.  Beefsteak  fifteen 
cents,  for  instance.  Go  in,"  he  added,  and  there 
was  something  in  his  tone  which  made  the  Object 
move  ungraciously  into  the  eating-house. 

It  was  a  very  queer  place.  Van  Bibber  thought, 
and  the  people  stared  very  hard  at  him  and  his 
gloves  and  the  gardenia  in  his  coat  and  at  the 
tramp  accompanying  him. 

"You  ain't  going  to  eat  two  breakfasts,  are 
yer  ?"  asked  one  of  the  very  tough-looking  waiters 
of  the  Object.  The  Object  looked  uneasy,  and 
Van  Bibber,  who  stood  beside  his  chair,  smiled 
in  triumph. 

"You're  mistaken,"  he  said  to  the  waiter. 
"  This  gentleman  is  starving ;  he  has  not  tasted 
food  for  twenty-four  hours.  Give  him  whatever 
he  asks  for  !" 


THE    HUNGRY   MAN   WAS   FED  51 

The  Object  scowled  and  the  waiter  grinned  be- 
hind his  tin  tray,  and  had  the  impudence  to  wink 
at  Van  Bibber,  who  recovered  from  this  in  time  to 
give  the  man  a  half-dollar  and  so  to  make  of  him 
a  friend  for  life.  The  Object  ordered  milk,  but 
Van  Bibber  protested  and  ordered  two  beefsteaks 
and  fried  potatoes,  hot  rolls  and  two  omelettes, 
coffee,  and  ham  with  bacon. 

"  Holy  smoke  !  watcher  think  I  am  ?"  yelled 
the  Object,  in  desperation. 

"  Hungry,"  said  Van  Bibber,  very  gently.  "  Or 
etee  an  impostor.  And,  you  know,  if  you  should 
happen  to  be  the  latter  I  should  have  to  hand  you 
over  to  the  police." 

Van  Bibber  leaned  easily  against  the  wall  and 
read  the  signs  about  him,  and  kept  one  eye  on  a 
policeman  across  the  street.  The  Object  was 
choking  and  cursing  through  his  breakfast.  It 
did  not  seem  to  agree  with  him.  Whenever  he 
stopped  Van  Bibber  would  point  with  his  stick 
to  a  still  unfinished  dish,  and  the  Object,  after  a 
husky  protest,  would  attack  it  as  though  it  were 
poison.  The  people  sitting  about  were  laughing, 
and  the  proprietor  behind  the  desk  smiling  grimly. 

"  There,  darn  ye !"  said  the  Object  at  last. 
"I've  eat  all  I  can  eat  for  a  year.  You  think 
you're  mighty  smart,  don't  ye?  But  if  you 
choose  to  pay  that  high  for  your  fun,  I  s'pose  you 
can  afford  it.  Only  don't  let  me  catch  you 
around  these  streets  after  dark,  that's  all." 

And  the  Object  started  off,  shaking  his  fist. 


52  THE   HUNGRY   MAN   WAS   FED 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "  You 
haven't  paid  them  for  your  breakfast." 

"  Haven't  what  ?"  shouted  the  Object.  "  Paid 
'em  !  How  could  I  pay  him  ?  Youse  asked  me 
to  come  in  here  and  eat.  I  didn't  want  no  break- 
fast, did  I?  Youse'U  have  to  pay  for  your  fun 
yerself,  or  they'll  throw  yer  out.  Don't  try  to  be 
too  smart." 

"  I  gave  you,"  said  Van  Bibber,  slowly,  "  seven- 
ty-five cents  with  which  to  buy  a  breakfast.  This 
check  calls  for  eighty-five  cents,  and  extremely 
cheap  it  is,"  he  added,  with  a  bow  to  the  fat  pro- 
prietor. "  Several  other  gentlemen,  on  your  rep- 
resentation that  you  were  starving,  gave  you  other 
sums  to  be  expended  on  a  breakfast.  You  have 
the  money  with  you  now.  So  pay  what  you  owe 
at  once,  or  I'll  call  that  ofiicer  across  the  street 
and  tell  him  what  I  know,  and  have  you  put 
where  you  belong." 

"  I'll  see  you  blowed  first  !"  gasped  the  Object. 

Van  Bibber  turned  to  the  waiter.  "Kindly 
beckon  to  that  officer,"  said  he. 

The  waiter  ran  to  the  door  and  the  Object  ran 
too,  but  the  tough  waiter  grabbed  him  by  the 
back  of  his  neck  and  held  him. 

"  Lemme  go  !"  yelled  the  Object.  "  Lemme  go 
an'  I'll  pay  you." 

Everybody  in  the  place  came  up  now  and 
formed  a  circle  around  the  group  and  watched  the 
Object  count  out  eighty-five  cents  into  the  waiter's 
hand,  w^hich  left  him  just  one  dime  to  himself. 


THE    HUNGEY   MAN   WAS   FED  53 

"You  have  forgotten  the  waiter  who  served 
you,"  said  Van  Bibber,  severely  pointing  with 
his  stick  at  the  dime. 

"No,  you  don't,"  groaned  the  Object. 

"Ob,  yes,"  said  Van  Bibber,  "do  the  decent 
thing  now,  or  I'll — " 

The  Object  dropped  the  dime  in  the  waiter's 
hand,  and  Van  Bibber,  smiling  and  easy,  made 
his  way  through  the  admiring  crowd  and  out 
into  the  street. 

"  I  suspect,"  said  Mr.  Van  Bibber  later  in  the 
day,  when  recounting  his  adventure  to  a  fellow- 
clubman,  "  that,  after  I  left,  fellow  tried  to  get  tip 
back  from  waiter,  for  I  saw  him  come  out  of 
place  very  suddenly,  you  see,  and  without  touch- 
ing j)avement  till  he  lit  on  back  of  his  head  in 
gutter.     He  was  most  remarkable  waiter." 


VAN  BIBBER  AT  THE  RACES 


YAN  BIBBER  AT  THE  EACES 


YOUNG  Van  Bibber  had  never  spent  a  Fourth 
of  July  in  the  city,  as  he  had  always  under- 
stood it  was  given  over  to  armies  of  small 
boys  on  that  day,  who  sat  on  all  the  curbstones 
and  set  off  fire-crackers,  and  that  the  thermometer 
always  showed  ninety  degrees  in  the  shade,  and 
cannon  boomed  and  bells  rang  from  daybreak  to 
midnight.  He  had  refused  all  invitations  to  join 
any  Fourth-of-July  parties  at  the  seashore  or  on 
the  Sound  or  at  Tuxedo,  because  he  expected  his 
people  home  from  Europe,  and  had  to  be  in  New 
York  to  meet  them.  He  was  accordingly  greatly 
annoyed  when  he  received  a  telegram  saying  they 
would  sail  in  a  boat  a  week  later. 

He  finished  his  coffee  at  the  club  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  Fourth  about  ten  o'clock,  in  absolute 
solitude,  and  with  no  one  to  expect  and  nothing 
to  anticipate;  so  he  asked  for  a  morning  paper 
and  looked  up  the  amusements  offered  for  the 
Fourth.  There  were  plenty  of  excursions  with 
brass  bands,  and  refreshments  served  on  board, 
baseball  matches  by  the  hundred,  athletic  meet- 


58  VAN   BIBBEE   AT  THE   RACES 

ings  and  picnics  by  the  dozen,  but  nothing  that 
seemed  to  exactly  please  him. 

The  races  sounded  attractive,  but  then  he  al- 
ways lost  such  a  lot  of  money,  and  the  crowd 
pushed  so,  and  the  sun  and  the  excitement  made 
his  head  ache  between  the  eyes  and  spoiled  his 
appetite  for  dinner.  He  had  vowed  again  and 
again  that  he  would  not  go  to  the  races  ;  but  as 
the  day  wore  on  and  the  solitude  of  the  club 
became  oppressive  and  the  silence  of  the  Avenue 
began  to  tell  on  him,  he  changed  his  mind,  and 
made  his  preparations  accordingly. 

First,  he  sent  out  after  all  the  morning  papers 
and  read  their  tips  on  the  probable  winners. 
Very  few  of  them  agreed,  so  he  took  the  horse 
which  most  of  them  seemed  to  think  was  best,  and 
determined  to  back  it,  no  matter  what  might  hap- 
pen or  what  new  tips  he  might  get  later.  Then 
he  put  two  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket-book  to 
bet  with,  and  twenty  dollars  for  expenses,  and 
sent  around  for  his  field-glasses. 

He  was  rather  late  in  starting,  and  he  made  up 
his  mind  on  the  way  to  Morris  Park  that  he  would 
be  true  to  the  list  of  winners  he  had  written  out, 
and  not  make  any  side  bets  on  any  suggestions  or 
inside  information  given  him  by  others.  He 
vowed  a  solemn  vow  on  the  rail  of  the  boat  to 
plunge  on  each  of  the  six  horses  he  had  selected 
from  the  newspaper  tips,  and  on  no  others.  He 
hoped  in  this  way  to  win  something.  He  did  not 
care  so  much  to  win,  but  he  hated  to  lose.     He 


VAN   BIBBER   AT  THE   RACES  59 

always  felt  so  flat  and  silly  after  it  was  over  ;  and 
when  it  happened,  as  it  often  did,  that  he  had  paid 
several  hundred  dollars  for  the  afternoon's  sport, 
his  sentiments  did  him  credit. 

"I  shall  probably,  or  rather  certainly,  be 
tramped  on  and  shoved,"  soliloquized  Van  Bibber. 

*'I  shall  smoke  more  cigars  than  are  good  for 
me,  and  drink  more  than  I  want,  owing  to  the 
unnatural  excitement  and  heat,  and  I  shall  be  late 
for  my  dinner.  And  for  all  this  I  shall  probably 
pay  two  hundred  dollars.  It  really  seems  as  if  I 
were  a  young  man  of  little  intellect,  and  yet  thou- 
sands of  others  are  going  to  do  exactly  the  same 
thing." 

The  train  was  very  late.  One  of  the  men  in 
front  said  they  would  probably  just  be  able  to 
get  their  money  up  in  time  for  the  first  race.  A 
horse  named  Firefly  was  Yan  Bibber's  choice,  and 
he  took  one  hundred  dollars  of  his  two  hundred  to 
put  up  on  her.  He  had  it  already  in  his  hand  when 
the  train  reached  the  track,  and  he  hurried  with 
the  rest  towards  the  bookmakers  to  get  his  one 
hundred  on  as  quickly  as  possible.  But  while  he 
was  crossing  the  lawn  back  of  the  stand,  he  heard 
cheers  and  wdld  yells  that  told  him  they  were 
running  the  race  at  that  moment. 

"Raceland!"  "Raceland!"  ^^Raceland  by  a 
length  !"  shouted  the  crowd. 

"  Who's  second?"  a  fat  man  shouted  at  another 
fat  man. 

"Firefly,"  called  back   the   second,  joyously, 


60  VAN   BIBBER    AT   THE    EACES 

"and  I've  got  lier  for  a  place  and  I  win  eight 
dollars." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Yan  Bibber,  as  he  slipped  his  one 
hundred  dollars  back  in  his  pocket,  "  good  thing 
I  got  here  a  bit  late." 

"  What'd  you  win,  Yan  Bibber?"  asked  a  friend 
who  rushed  past  him,  clutching  his  tickets  as 
though  they  were  precious  stones. 

"I  win  one  hundred  dollars,"  answered  Yan 
Bibber,  calmly,  as  he  walked  on  up  into  the  boxes. 
It  was  delightfully  cool  up  there,  and  to  his  satis- 
faction and  surprise  he  found  several  people  there 
whom  he  knew.  He  went  into  Her  box  and  ac- 
cepted some  2^dt6  sandwiches  and  iced  champagne, 
and  chatted  and  laughed  with  Her  so  industriously, 
and  so  much  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  that  the 
horses  were  at  the  starting-post  before  he  was 
aware  of  it,  and  he  had  to  excuse  himself  hurriedly 
and  run  to  put  up  his  money  on  Bugler,  the  sec- 
ond on  his  list.  He  decided  that  as  he  had  won 
one  hundred  dollars  on  the  first  race  he  could  af- 
ford to  plunge  on  this  one,  so  he  counted  out  fifty 
more,  and  putting  this  with  the  original  one  hun- 
dred dollars,  crowded  into  the  betting-ring  and 
said,  "A  hundred  and  fifty  on  Bugler  straight." 

"  Bugler's  just  been  scratched,"  said  the  bookie, 
leaning  over  Yan  Bibber's  shoulder  for  a  greasy 
five-dollar  bill. 

"Will  you  play  anything  else?"  he  asked,  as 
the  young  gentleman  stood  there  irresolute. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Yan  Bibber,  remember- 


VAN   BIBBER   AT  THE   RACES  61 

ing  his  vow,  and  turning  hastily  away.  "  Well," 
he  mused,  "  I'm  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  bet- 
ter off  than  I  might  have  been  if  Bugler  hadn't 
been  scratched  and  hadn't  won.  One  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  added  to  one  hundred  makes 
two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  That  puts  me 
'way  ahead  of  the  game.  I  am  fifty  dollars  better 
off  than  when  I  left  New  York.  I'm  playing 
in  great  luck."  So,  on  the  strength  of  this,  he 
bought  out  the  man  who  sells  bouquets,  and 
ordered  more  champagne  to  be  sent  up  to  the  box 
where  She  was  sitting,  and  they  all  congratulated 
him  on  his  winnings,  which  were  suggested  by 
his  generous  and  sudden  expenditures. 

"  You  must  have  a  great  eye  for  picking  a  win- 
ner," said  one  of  the  older  men,  grudgingly. 

"  Y-e-s,"  said  Van  Bibber,  modestly.  "  I  know 
a  horse  when  I  see  it,  I  think  ;  and,"  he  added 
to  himself,  "  that's  about  all." 

His  horse  for  the  third  race  was  Rover,  and  the 
odds  were  five  to  one  against  him.  Van  Bibber 
wanted  very  much  to  bet  on  Pirate  King  instead, 
but  he  remembered  his  vow  to  keep  to  the  list  he 
had  originally  prepared,  whether  he  lost  or  won. 
This  running  after  strange  gods  was  always  a 
losing  business.  He  took  one  hundred  dollars  in 
five-dollar  bills,  and  went  down  to  the  ring  and  put 
the  hundred  up  on  Rover  and  returned  to  the  box. 
The  horses  had  been  weighed  in  and  the  bugle 
had  sounded,  and  three  of  the  racers  were  making 
their  way  up  the  track,  when  one  of  them  plunged 


62  VAN   BIBBER   AT   THE   RACES 

suddenly  forward  and  went  down  on  his  knees 
and  then  stretched  out  dead.  Van  Bibber  was 
confident  it  was  Rover,  although  he  had  no  idea 
Avhich  the  horse  was,  but  he  knew  his  horse  w^ould 
not  run.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  excitement, 
and  people  who  did  not  know  the  rule,  which  re- 
quires the  return  of  all  money  if  any  accident 
happens  to  a  horse  on  the  race-track  between  the 
time  of  weighing  in  and  arriving  at  the  post,  were 
needlessly  alarmed.  Van  Bibber  walked  down  to 
the  ring  and  received  his  money  back  with  a  smile. 

"I'm  just  one  hundred  dollars  better  off  than 
I  was  three  minutes  ago,"  he  said.  "I've  really 
had  a  most  remarkable  day." 

Mayfair  was  his  choice  for  the  fourth  race,  and 
she  was  selling  at  three  to  one.  Van  Bibber  de- 
termined to  put  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  dol- 
lars up  on  her,  for,  as  he  said,  he  had  not  lost  on 
any  one  race  yet.  The  girl  in  the  box  was  very 
interesting,  though,  and  Van  Bibber  found  a  great 
deal  to  say  to  her.  He  interrupted  himself  once 
to  call  to  one  of  the  messenger-boys  who  ran  with 
bets,  and  gave  him  one  hundred  and  seventy-five 
dollars  to  put  on  Mayfair. 

Several  other  gentlemen  gave  the  boy  large 
sums  as  well,  and  Van  Bibber  continued  to  talk 
earnestly  with  the  girl.  He  raised  his  head  to 
see  Mayfair  straggle  in  a  bad  second,  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "  How  much  did  you  lose  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,  'bout  two  hundred  dollars,"  said  Van  Bib- 


VAN   BIBBER   AT   THE   EACES  63 

ber ;  "  but  it's  the  first  time  I've  lost  to-day,  so 
I'm  still  ahead."  He  bent  over  to  continue  what 
he  was  saying,  when  a  rude  commotion  and  loud 
talking  caused  those  in  the  boxes  to  raise  their 
heads  and  look  around.  Several  gentlemen  were 
pointing  out  Van  Bibber  to  one  of  the  Pinkerton 
detectives,  who  had  a  struggling  messenger-boy 
in  his  grasp. 

"  These  gentlemen  say  you  gave  this  boy  some 
money,  sir,"  said  the  detective.  "  He  tried  to  do 
a  welsh  with  it,  and  I  caught  him  just  as  he  was 
getting  over  the  fence.  How  much  and  on  what 
horse,  sir?" 

Van  Bibber  showed  his  memoranda,  and  the 
officer  handed  him  over  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  dollars. 

"  Now,  let  me  see,"  said  Van  Bibber,  shutting 
one  eye  and  calculating  intently,  "  one  hundred 
and  seventy-five  to  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
makes  me  a  winner  by  five  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  dollars.  That's  purty  good,  isn't  it  ?  I'll 
have  a  great  dinner  at  Delraonico's  to-night. 
You'd  better  all  come  back  with  me  !" 

But  She  said  he  had  much  better  come  back 
with  her  and  her  party  on  top  of  the  coach  and 
take  dinner  in  the  cool  country  instead  of  the  hot, 
close  city,  and  Van  Bibber  said  he  would  like  to, 
only  he  did  wish  to  get  his  one  hundred  dollars 
up  on  at  least  one  race.  But  they  said  "no," 
they  must  be  off  at  once,  for  the  ride  was  a  long 
one,  and  Van  Bibber  looked  at  his  list  and  saw 


64  VAN   BIBBEE  AT  THE   KACES 

that  his  choice  was  Jack  Frost,  a  very  likely  win- 
ner, indeed  ;  but,  nevertheless,  he  walked  out  to 
the  enclosure  with  them  and  mounted  the  coach 
beside  the  girl  on  the  back  seat,  with  only  the 
two  coachmen  behind  to  hear  what  he  chose  to 
say. 

And  just  as  they  finally  were  all  harnessed  up 
and  the  horn  sounded,  the  crowd  yelled,  "  They're 
off,"  and  Van  Bibber  and  all  of  them  turned  on 
their  high  seats  to  look  back. 

"  Magpie  wins,"  said  the  whip. 

"  And  Jack  Frost's  last,"  said  another. 

"  And  I  win  my  one  hundred  dollars,"  said  Van 
Bibber.  "It's  really  very  curious,"  he  added, 
turning  to  the  girl.  "I  started  out  with  two 
hundred  dollars  to-day,  I  spent  only  twenty-five 
dollars  on  flowers,  I  won  six  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  dollars,  and  I  have  only  one  hundred  and 
seventy-five  dollars  to  show  for  it,  and  yet  I've 
had  a  very  pleasant  Fourth." 


AN  EXPEKIMENT  IN  ECONOMY 


AK  EXPEKIMEISTT  m  ECONOMY 


OF  course,  Van  Bibber  lost  all  the  money  he 
saved  at  the  races  on  the  Fourth  of  July. 
He  went  to  the  track  the  next  day,  and  he  saw 
the  whole  sura  melt  away,  and  in  his  vexation 
tried  to  "get  back,"  with  the  usual  result.  He 
plunged  desperately,  and  when  he  had  reached 
his  rooms  and  run  over  his  losses,  he  found  he  was 
a  financial  wreck,  and  that  he,  as  his  sporting 
friends  expressed  it,  "would  have  to  smoke  a 
pipe"  for  several  years  to  come,  instead  of  in- 
dulging in  Regalias.  He  could  not  conceive  how 
he  had  come  to  make  such  a  fool  of  himself,  and 
he  wondered  if  he  would  have  enough  confidence 
to  spend  a  dollar  on  luxuries  again. 

It  was  awful  to  contemplate  the  amount  he  had 
lost.  He  felt  as  if  it  were  sinful  extravagance  to 
even  pay  his  car-fare  up-town,  and  he  contemplat- 
ed giving  his  landlord  the  rent  with  keen  distress. 
It  almost  hurt  him  to  part  with  five  cents  to  the 
conductor,,  and  as  he  looked  at  the  hansoms  dash- 
ing by  with  lucky  winners  inside  he  groaned  aud- 
ibly. 

"I've  got  to  economize," he  soliloquized.    "No 


68  AN    EXPERIMENT   IN    ECONOMY 

use  talking  ;  must  economize.  I'll  begin  to-mor- 
row morning  and  keep  it  up  for  a  month.  Then 
I'll  be  on  my  feet  again.  Then  I  can  stop  econo- 
mizing, and  enjoy  myself.  But  no  more  races  ; 
never,  never  again." 

He  was  delighted  with  this  idea  of  economiz- 
ing. He  liked  the  idea  of  self-punishment  that  it 
involved,  and  as  he  had  never  denied  himself  any- 
thing in  his  life,  the  novelty  of  the  idea  charmed 
him.  He  rolled  over  to  sleep,  feeling  very  much 
happier  in  his  mind  than  he  had  been  before  his 
determination  was  taken,  and  quite  eager  to  begin 
on  the  morrow.  He  arose  very  early,  about  ten 
o'clock,  and  recalled  his  idea  of  economy  for  a 
month,  as  a  saving  clause  to  his  having  lost  a 
month's  spending  money. 

He  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  his  coffee  and 
rolls  and  a  parsley  omelette,  at  Delmonico's  every 
morning.  He  decided  that  he  would  start  out  on 
his  road  of  economy  by  omitting  the  omelette  and 
ordering  only  a  pot  of  coffee.  By  some  rare  in- 
tuition he  guessed  that  there  were  places  up-town 
where  things  were  cheaper  than  at  his  usual 
haunt,  only  he  did  not  know  where  they  were. 
He  stumbled  into  a  restaurant  on  a  side  street 
finally,  and  ordered  a  cup  of  coffee  and  some  rolls. 

The  waiter  seemed  to  think  that  w^as  a  very 
poor  sort  of  breakfast,  and  suggested  some  nice 
chops  or  a  bit  of  steak  or  "ham  and  eggs,  sah," 
all  of  which  made  Van  Bibber  shudder.  The 
waiter  finally  concluded   that  Van  Bibber  was 


AN   EXPERIMENT   IN    ECONOMY  69 

poor  and  couldn't  afford  any  more,  which,  as  it 
happened  to  be  more  or  less  true,  worried  that 
young  gentleman  ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  when 
the  waiter  brought  him  a  check  for  fifteen  cents, 
Van  Bibber  handed  him  a  half-dollar  and  told 
him  to  "  keep  the  change." 

The  satisfaction  he  felt  in  this  wore  off  very 
soon  when  he  appreciated  that,  while  he  had  econ- 
omized in  his  breakfast,  his  vanity  had  been  very 
extravagantly  pampered,  and  he  felt  how  absurd 
it  was  when  he  remembered  he  would  not  have 
spent  more  if  he  had  gone  to  Delmonico's  in  the 
first  place.  He  wanted  one  of  those  large  black 
Regalias  very  much,  but  they  cost  entirely  too 
much.  He  went  carefully  through  his  pockets 
to  see  if  he  had  one  with  him,  but  he  had  not, 
and  he  determined  to  get  a  pipe.  Pipes  are  al- 
ways cheap. 

"  "What  sort  of  a  pipe,  sir  ?"  said  the  man  be- 
hind the  counter. 

"  A  cheap  pipe,"  said  Van  Bibber. 

"  But  what  sort  ?"  persisted  the  man. 

Van  Bibber  thought  a  brier  pipe,  with  an  am- 
ber mouth-piece  and  a  silver  band,  would  about 
suit  his  fancy.  The  man  had  just  such  a  pipe, 
with  trade-marks  on  the  brier  and  hall-marks 
and  "Sterling"  on  the  silver  band.  It  lay  in  a 
very  pretty  silk  box,  and  there  was  another  mouth- 
piece you  could  screw  in,  and  a  cleaner  and  top 
piece  with  which  to  press  the  tobacco  down.  It 
was  most  complete,  and  only  five  dollars.     "  Isn't 


70  AN    EXPEKIMENT   IN    ECONOMY 

that  a  good  deal  for  a  pipe  ?"  asked  Van  Bibber. 
The  man  said,  being  entirely  unprejudiced,  that 
he  thought  not.  It  was  cheaper,  he  said,  to  get 
a  good  thing  at  the  start.  It  lasted  longer.  And 
cheap  pipes  bite  your  tongue.  This  seemed  to 
Van  Bibber  most  excellent  reasoning.  Some  Ox- 
ford-Cambridge mixture  attracted  Van  Bibber  on 
account  of  its  name.  This  cost  one  dollar  more. 
As  he  left  the  shop  he  saw  a  lot  of  pipes,  brier 
and  corn-cob  and  Sallie  Michaels,  in  the  window 
marked,  "Any  of  these  for  a  quarter."  This 
made  him  feel  badly,  and  he  was  conscious  he  was 
not  making  a  success  of  his  economy.  He  started 
back  to  the  club,  but  it  was  so  hot  that  he  thought 
he  would  faint  before  he  got  there;  so  he  called  a 
hansom,  on  the  principle  that  it  was  cheaper  to  ride 
and  keep  well  than  to  walk  and  have  a  sunstroke. 

He  saw  some  people  that  he  knew  going  by  in  a 
cab  with  a  pile  of  trunks  on  the  top  of  it,  and 
that  reminded  him  that  they  had  asked  him  to 
come  down  and  see  them  off  when  the  steamer 
left  that  afternoon.  So  he  waved  his  hand  when 
they  passed,  and  bowed  to  them,  and  cried,  "  See 
you  later,"  before  he  counted  the  consequences. 
He  did  not  wish  to  arrive  empty-handed,  so  he 
stopped  in  at  a  florist's  and  got  a  big  basket  of 
flowers  and  another  of  fruit,  and  piled  them  into 
the  hansom. 

When  he  came  to  pay  the  driver  he  found  the 
trip  from  Thirty-fifth  Street  to  the  foot  of  Lib- 
erty was  two  dollars  and  a  half,  and  the  fruit  and 


AN   EXPERIMENT   IN    ECONOMY  71 

flowers  came  to  twenty-two  dollars.  He  was 
greatly  distressed  over  this,  and  could  not  see  how 
it  had  happened.  He  rode  back  in  the  elevated 
for  five  cents  and  felt  much  better.  Then  some 
men  just  back  from  a  yachting  trip  joined  him  at 
the  club  and  ordered  a  great  many  things  to  drink, 
and  of  course  he  had  to  do  the  same,  and  seven  dol- 
lars were  added  to  his  economy  fund.  He  argued 
that  this  did  not  matter,  because  he  signed  a  check 
for  it,  and  that  he  would  not  have  to  pay  for  it  un- 
til the  end  of  the  month,  when  the  necessity  of 
economizing  would  be  over. 

Still,  his  conscience  did  not  seem  convinced,  and 
he  grew  very  desperate.  He  felt  he  was  not  doing 
it  at  all  properly,  and  he  determined  that  he  would 
spend  next  to  nothing  on  his  dinner.  He  remem- 
bered with  a  shudder  the  place  he  had  taken  the 
tramp  to  dinner,  and  he  vowed  that  before  he 
would  economize  as  rigidly  as  that  he  would  starve; 
but  he  had  heard  of  the  table  d^hote  places  on 
Sixth  Avenue,  so  he  went  there  and  wandered 
along  the  street  until  he  found  one  that  looked 
clean  and  nice.  He  began  with  a  heavy  soup, 
shoved  a  rich,  fat,  fried  fish  over  his  plate,  and 
followed  it  with  a  queer  entree  of  spaghetti  with 
a  tomato  dressing  that  satisfied  his  hunger  and 
killed  his  appetite  as  if  with  the  blow  of  a  lead 
pipe.  But  he  went  through  with  the  rest  of  it, 
for  he  felt  it  was  the  truest  economy  to  get  his 
money's  worth,  and  the  limp  salad  in  bad  oil  and 
the  ice-cream  of  sour  milk  made  him  feel  that 


72  AN   EXPEEIMENT  IN   ECONOMY 

eating  was  a  positive  pain  rather  than  a  pleasure; 
and  in  this  state  of  mind  and  body,  drugged  and 
disgusted,  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  walked  slowly 
towards  the  club  along  Twenty-sixth  Street. 

He  looked  in  at  the  cafe  at  Delmonico's  with 
envy  and  disgust,  and,  going  disheartenedly  on, 
passed  the  dining-room  windows  that  were  wide 
open  and  showed  the  heavy  white  linen,  the  sil- 
ver, and  the  women  coolly  dressed  and  everybody 
happy. 

And  then  there  was  a  wild  waving  of  arms  in- 
side, and  white  hands  beckoning  him,  and  he  saw 
with  mingled  feelings  of  regret  that  the  whole 
party  of  the  Fourth  of  July  were  inside  and  mo- 
tioning to  him.  They  made  room  for  him,  and 
the  captain's  daughter  helped  him  to  olives,  and 
the  chaperon  told  how  they  had  come  into  town 
for  -the  day,  and  had  been  telegraphing  for  him 
and  Edgar  and  Fred  and  "  dear  Bill,"  and  the 
rest  said  they  were  so  glad  to  see  him  because 
they  knew  he  could  appreciate  a  good  dinner  if 
any  one  could. 

But  Van  Bibber  only  groaned,  and  the  awful 
memories  of  the  lead-like  spaghetti  and  the  bad 
oil  and  the  queer  cheese  made  him  shudder,  and 
turned  things  before  him  into  a  Tantalus  feast  of 
rare  cruelty.  There  were  Little  Neck  clams,  de- 
licious cold  consomme,  and  white  fish,  and  French 
chops  with  a  dressing  of  truffles,  and  Roman  punch 
and  woodcock  to  follow,  and  crisp  lettuce  and  toast- 
ed crackers-and-cheese,  with  a  most  remarkable 


AN   EXPERIMENT   IN   ECONOMY  1S 

combination  of  fruits  and  ices  ;  and  Van  Bibber 
could  eat  nothing,  and  sat  unhappily  looking  at 
his  plate  and  shaking  his  head  when  the  waiter 
urged  him  gently.  "  Economy  !"  he  said,  with 
disgusted  solemnity.  "It's  all  tommy  rot.  It. 
wouldn't  have  cost  me  a  cent  to  have  eaten  this 
dinner,  and  yet  I've  paid  half  a  dollar  to  make 
myself  ill  so  that  I  can't.  If  you  know  how  to 
economize,  it  may  be  all  right ;  but  if  you  don't 
understand  it,  you  must  leave  it  alone.  It's  dan- 
gerous.    I'll  economize  no  more. 

And  he  accordingly  broke  his  vow  by  taking 
the  wiiole  party  up  to  see  the  laidy  who  would 
not  be  photographed  in  tights,  and  put  them  in  a 
box  where  they  were  gagged  by  the  comedian, 
and  where  the  soubrette  smiled  on  them  and  all 
went  well. 


MR.  TRAVERS'S  FIRST  HUNT 


MK.  TEAYEKS'S  FIEST  HUJSTT 


YOUNG  Travers,  who  had  been  engaged  to 
a  girl  down  on  Long  Island  for  the  last 
three  months,  only  met  her  father  and  brother  a 
few  weeks  before  the  day  set  for  the  wedding. 
The  brother  is  a  master  of  hounds  near  South- 
ampton, and  shared  the  expense  of  importing  a 
pack  from  England  with  Van  Bibber.  The  father 
and  son  talked  horse  all  day  and  until  one  in  the 
morning  ;  for  they  owned  fast  thoroughbreds,  and 
entered  them  at  the  Sheepshead  Bay  and  other 
race-tracks.  Old  Mr.  Paddock,  the  father  of  the 
girl  to  whom  Travers  was  engaged,  had  often 
said  that  when  a  young  man  asked  him  for  his 
daughter's  hand  he  would  ask  him  in  return,  not 
if  he  had  lived  straight,  but  if  he  could  ride 
straight.  And  on  his  answering  this  question  in 
the  affirmative  depended  his  gaining  her  parent's 
consent.  Travers  had  met  Miss  Paddock  and  her 
mother  in  Europe,  while  the  men  of  the  family 
were  at  home.  He  was  invited  to  their  place  in 
the  fall  when  the  hunting  season  opened,  and 
spent  the  evening  most  pleasantly  and  satisfac- 
torily with  h\sjia7icie  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing- 


78  MK. 

room.  But  as  soon  as  the  women  had  gone,  young 
Paddock  joined  him  and  said,  "You  ride,  of 
course?"  Travers  had  never  ridden;  but  he  had 
been  prompted  how  to  answer  by  Miss  Paddock, 
and  so  said  there  was  nothing  he  liked  better. 
As  he  expressed  it,  he  would  rather  ride  than 
sleep. 

"That's  good,"  said  Paddock.  "I'll  give  you 
a  mount  on  Satan  to-morrow  morning  at  the 
meet.  He  is  a  bit  nasty  at  the  start  of  the  sea- 
son ;  and  ever  since  he  killed  Wallis,  the  second 
groom,  last  year,  none  of  us  care  much  to  ride 
him.  But  you  can  manage  him,  no  doubt.  He'll 
just  carry  your  weight." 

Mr.  Travers  dreamed  that  night  of  taking 
large,  desperate  leaps  into  space  on  a  wild  horse 
that  snorted  forth  flames,  and  that  rose  at  solid 
stone  walls  as  though  they  were  hayricks. 

He  was  tempted  to  say  he  was  ill  in  the  morn- 
ing— which  was,  considering  his  state  of  mind, 
more  or  less  true — but  concluded  that,  as  he  would 
have  to  ride  sooner  or  later  during  his  visit, 
and  that  if  he  did  break  his  neck  it  would  be 
in  a  good  cause,  he  determined  to  do  his  best. 
He  did  not  want  to  ride  at  all,  for  two  excellent 
reasons — first,  because  he  wanted  to  live  for  Miss 
Paddock's  sake,  and,  second,  because  he  wanted 
to  live  for  his  own. 

The  next  morning  was  a  most  forbidding  and 
doleful-looking  morning,  and  young  Travers  had 
great  hopes  that  the  meet  would  be  declared  off ; 


MK.  TRAVEES'S   FIRST   HUNT  79 

but,  just  as  he  lay  in  doubt,  the  servant  knocked 
at  his  door  with  his  riding  things  and  his  hot 
water. 

He  came  down -stairs  looking  very  miserable 
indeed.  Satan  had  been  taken  to  the  place  where 
they  were  to  meet,  and  Travers  viewed  him  on 
his  arrival  there  with  a  sickening  sense  of  fear  as 
he  saw  him  pulling  three  grooms  off  their  feet. 

Travers  decided  that  he  would  stay  with  his 
feet  on  solid  earth  just  as  long  as  he  could,  and 
when  the  hounds  were  thrown  off  and  the  rest 
had  started  at  a  gallop  he  waited,  under  the  pre- 
tence of  adjusting  his  gaiters,  until  they  were  all 
well  away.  Then  he  clenched  his  teeth,  crammed 
his  hat  down  over  his  ears,  and  scrambled  up  on 
to  the  saddle.  His  feet  fell  quite  by  accident  into 
the  stirrups,  and  the  next  instant  he  was  off  after 
the  others,  with  an  indistinct  feeling  that  he  was 
on  a  locomotive  that  was  jumping  the  ties.  Satan 
was  in  among  and  had  passed  the  other  horses  in 
less  than  five  minutes,  and  was  so  close  on  the 
hounds  that  the  whippers-in  gave  a  cry  of  warn- 
ing. But  Travers  could  as  soon  have  pulled  a 
boat  back  from  going  over  the  Niagara  Falls  as 
Satan,  and  it  was  only  because  the  hounds  were 
well  ahead  that  saved  them  from  having  Satan 
ride  them  down.  Travers  had  taken  hold  of  the 
saddle  with  his  left  hand  to  keep  himself  down, 
and  sawed  and  swayed  on  the  reins  with  his  right. 
He  shut  his  eyes  whenever  Satan  jumped,  and 
never  knew  how  he  happened  to  stick  on  ;  but  he 


80 


did  stick  on,  and  was  so  far  ahead  that  no  one 
could  see  in  the  misty  morning  just  how  badly  he 
rode.  As  it  was,  for  daring  and  speed  he  led  the 
field,  and  not  even  young  Paddock  was  near  him 
from  the  start.  There  was  a  broad  stream  in 
front  of  him,  and  a  hill  just  on  its  other  side. 
No  one  had  ever  tried  to  take  tliis  at  a  jump.  It 
was  considered  more  of  a  swim  than  anything 
else,  and  the  hunters  always  crossed  it  by  the 
bridge,  towards  the  left.  Travers  saw  the  bridge 
and  tried  to  jerk  Satan's  head  in  that  direction  ; 
but  Satan  kept  right  on  as  straight  as  an  express 
train  over  the  prairie.  Fences  and  trees  and  fur- 
rows passed  by  and  under  Travers  like  a  panora- 
ma run  by  electricity,  and  he  only  breathed  by 
accident.  They  went  on  at  the  stream  and  the 
hill  beyond  as  though  they  were  riding  at  a 
stretch  of  turf,  and,  though  the  whole  field  set  up 
a  shout  of  warning  and  dismay,  Travers  could 
only  gasp  and  shut  his  eyes.  He  remembered  the 
fate  of  the  second  groom  and  shivered.  Then  the 
horse  rose  like  a  rocket,  lifting  Travers  so  high 
in  the  air  that  he  thought  Satan  would  never 
come  down  again  ;  but  he  did  come  down,  with  his 
feet  bunched,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream. 
The  next  instant  he  was  up  and  over  the  hill,  and 
had  stopped  panting  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
pack  that  were  snarling  and  snapping  around  the 
fox.  And  then  Travers  showed  that  he  was  a 
thoroughbred,  even  though  he  could  not  ride,  for 
he  hastily  fumbled  for  his  cigar-case,  and  when 


MR.   TKAVERS'S    FIRST   HUNT  81 

the  field  came  pounding  up  over  the  bridge  and 
around  the  hill,  they  saw  him  seated  nonchalantly 
on  his  saddle,  puffing  critically  at  a  cigar  and  giv- 
ing Satan  patronizing  pats  on  the  head. 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  old  Mr.  Paddock  to  his 
daughter  as  they  rode  back,  "if  you  love  that 
young  man  of  yours  and  want  to  keep  him,  make 
him  promise  to  give  up  riding.  A  more  reckless 
and  more  brilliant  horseman  I  have  never  seen. 
He  took  that  double  jump  at  tlie  gate  and  that 
stream  like  a  centaur.  But  he  will  break  his 
neck  sooner  or  later,  and  he  ought  to  be  stopped." 
Young  Paddock  was  so  delighted  with  his  pros- 
pective brother-in-law's  great  riding  that  that 
night  in  the  smoking-room  he  made  him  a  present 
of  Satan  before  all  the  men. 

"No,"  said  Travers,  gloomily,  "I  can't  take 
him.  Your  sister  has  asked  me  to  give  up  what 
is  dearer  to  me  than  anything  next  to  herself, 
and  that  is  my  riding.  You  see,  she  is  absurdly 
anxious  for  my  safety,  and  she  has  asked  me  to 
promise  never  to  ride  again,  and  I  have  given  my 
word." 

A  chorus  of  sympathetic  remonstrance  rose  from 
the  men. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Travers  to  her  brother,  "it 
is  rough,  but  it  just  shows  what  sacrifices  a  man 
will  make  for  the  woman  he  loves." 
6 


LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG 


LOYE  ME,  LOYE  MY  DOG 


YOUNG  Yan  Bibber  had  been  staying  with 
some  people  at  Southampton,  L.  I.,  where, 
the  fall  before,  his  friend  Travers  made  his  reputa- 
tion as  a  cross-country  rider.  He  did  this,  it  may 
be  remembered,  by  shutting  his  eyes  and  holding 
on  by  the  horse's  mane  and  letting  the  horse  go  as 
it  pleased.  His  recklessness  and  courage  are  still 
spoken  of  with  awe  ;  and  the  place  where  he 
cleared  the  water  jump  that  every  one  else  avoid- 
ed is  pointed  out  as  Travers's  Leap  to  visiting 
horsemen,  who  look  at  it  gloomily  and  shake  their 
heads.  Miss  Arnett,  whose  mother  was  giving 
the  house-party,  was  an  attractive  young  woman, 
with  an  admiring  retinue  of  youths  who  gave 
attention  without  intention,  and  for  none  of  whom 
Miss  Arnett  showed  particular  preference.  Her 
whole  interest,  indeed,  was  centred  in  a  dog,  a 
Scotch  collie  called  Duncan.  She  allowed  this 
dog  every  liberty,  and  made  a  decided  nuisance 
of  him  for  every  one  around  her.  He  always 
went  with  her  when  she  walked,  or  trotted  beside 
her  horse  when  she  rode.  He  stretched  himself 
before  the  fire  in  the  dining-room,  and  startled 


86  LOVE   ME,  LOVE    MY    DOG 

people  at  table  by  placing  bis  cold  nose  against 
tbeir  bands  or  putting  bis  paws  on  tbeir  gowns. 
He  was  generally  voted  a  most  annoying  adjunct 
to  tbe  Arnett  bousebold  ;  but  no  one  dared  bint  so 
to  Miss  Arnett,  as  sbe  only  loved  tbose  wbo  loved 
tbe  dog,  or  pretended  to  do  it.  On  tbe  morning 
of  tbe  afternoon  on  wbicb  Yan  Bibber  and  bis  bag 
arrived,  tbe  dog  disappeared  and  could  not  be 
recovered.  Van  Bibber  found  tbe  bousebold  in 
a  state  of  mucb  excitement  in  consequence,  and 
bis  welcome  was  necessarily  brief.  Tbe  arriving 
guest  was  not  to  be  considered  at  all  witb  tbe  de- 
parted dog.  Tbe  men  told  Yan  Bibber,  in  confi- 
dence, tbat  tbe  general  relief  among  tbe  guests 
was  sometbing  ecstatic,  but  tbis  was  marred  later 
by  tbe  gloom  of  Miss  Arnett  and  ber  inability  to 
tbink  of  anytbing  else  but  tbe  finding  of  tbe  lost 
collie.  Tilings  became  so  feverisb  tbat  for  tbe 
sake  of  rest  and  peace  tbe  house-party  proposed 
to  contribute  to  a  joint  purse  for  tbe  return  of 
tbe  dog,  as  even,  nuisance  as  it  was,  it  was  not  so 
bad  as  baving  tbeir  visit  spoiled  by  Miss  Arnett's 
abandonment  to  grief  and  crossness. 

"I  tbink,"  said  tbe  young  woman,  after  luncbeon, 
"tbat  some  of  you  men  migbt  be  civil  enougb  to 
offer  to  look  for  bim.  I'm  sure  be  can't  bave 
gone  far,  or,  if  he  has  been  stolen,  tbe  men  wbo 
took  bim  couldn't  bave  gone  very  far  away  either. 
Now  wbicb  of  you  will  volunteer?  I'm  sure 
you'll  do  it  to  please  me.  Mr.  Yan  Bibber,  now : 
you  say  you're  so   clever.     We're   all  tbe  time 


LOVE    ME,  LOVE    MY   DOG  87 

hearing  of  3^0111*  adventures.  Why  don't  you 
show  how  full  of  expedients  you  are  and  rise  to 
the  occasion?"  The  suggestion  of  scorn  in  this 
speech  nettled  Van  Bibber. 

"I'm  sure  I  never  posed  as  being  clever,"  he 
said,  *'  and  finding  a  lost  dog  with  all  Long  Island 
to  pick  and  choose  from  isn't  a  particularly  easy 
thing  to  pull  off  successfully,  I  should  think." 

"I  didn't  suppose  you'd  take  a  dare  like  that, 
Van  Bibber,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "  Why,  it's 
just  the  sort  of  thing  you  do  so  well." 

"Yes,"  said  another,  "I'll  back  you  to  find  him 
if  you  try." 

"Thanks,"  said  Van  Bibber,  dryly.  "There 
seems  to  be  a  disposition  on  the  part  of  the  young 
men  present  to  turn  me  into  a  dog-catcher.  I  doubt 
whether  this  is  altogether  unselfish.  I  do  not  say 
that  they  would  rather  remain  indoors  and  teach 
the  girls  how  to  play  billiards,  but  I  quite  appre- 
ciate their  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  roam  about 
in  the  snow  and  whistle  for  a  dog.  However,  to 
oblige  the  despondent  mistress  of  this  valuable 
member  of  the  household,  I  will  risk  pneumonia, 
and  I  will,  at  the  same  time,  in  order  to  make  the 
event  interesting  to  all  concerned,  back  myself  to 
bring  that  dog  back  by  eight  o'clock.  Now, 
then,  if  any  of  you  unselfish  youths  have  any 
sporting  blood,  you  will  just  name  the  sum." 

They  named  one  hundred  dollars,  and  arranged 
that  Van  Bibber  was  to  have  the  dog  back  by 
eight  o'clock,  or  just  in  time  for  dinner ;  for  Van 


88  LOVE    ME,  LOVE   MY   DOG 

Bibber  said  he  wouldn't  miss  his  dinner  for  all  the 
dogs  in  the  two  hemispheres,  unless  the  dogs  hap- 
pened to  be  his  own. 

Van  Bibber  put  on  his  great-coat  and  told  the 
man  to  bring  around  the  dog-cart ;  then  he  filled 
his  pockets  with  cigars  and  placed  a  flask  of  bran- 
dy under  the  seat,  and  wrapped  the  robes  around 
his  knees. 

"  I  feel  just  like  a  relief  expedition  to  the  North 
Pole.  I  think  I  ought  to  have  some  lieutenants," 
he  suggested. 

"Well,"  cried  one  of  the  men,  "suppose  we 
make  a  pool  and  each  chip  in  fifty  dollars,  and  the 
man  who  brings  the  dog  back  in  time  gets  the 
whole  of  it  ?" 

"  That  bet  of  mine  stands,  doesn't  it  ?"  asked 
Van  Bibber, 

The  men  said  it  did,  and  went  off  to  put  on 
their  riding  things,  and  four  horses  were  saddled 
and  brought  around  from  the  stable.  Each  of  the 
four  explorers  was  furnished  with  a  long  rope  to 
tie  to  Duncan's  collar,  and  with  which  he  was  to  be 
led  back  if  they  found  him.  They  were  cheered 
ironically  by  the  maidens  they  had  deserted  on 
compulsion,  and  were  smiled  upon  severally  by 
Miss  Arnett.  Then  they  separated  and  took  dif- 
ferent roads.  It  was  snowing  gently,  and  was 
very  cold.  Van  Bibber  drove  aimlessly  ahead, 
looking  to  the  right  and  left  and  scanning  each 
back  yard  and  side  street.  Every  now  and  then 
he  hailed  some  passing  farm  wagon  and  asked  the 


LOVE    ME,  LOVE    MY    DOG  89 

driver  if  he  had  seen  a  stray  collie  dog,  but  the 
answer  was  invariably  in  the  negative.  He  soon 
left  the  village  in  the  rear,  and  plunged  out  over 
the  downs.  The  wind  was  bitter  cold,  and  swept 
from  the  water  with  a  chill  that  cut  through  his 
clothes. 

"  Oh,  this  is  great,"  said  Van  Bibber  to  the  pa- 
tient horse  in  front  of  him ;  "  this  is  sport,  this  is. 
The  next  time  I  come  to  this  part  of  the  world 
I'll  be  dragged  here  with  a  rope.  Nice,  hospita- 
ble people  those  Arnetts,  aren't  they?  Ask  you 
to  make  yourself  at  home  chasing  dogs  over  an 
ice  fjord.  Don't  know  when  I've  enjoyed  myself 
so  much."  Every  now  and  then  he  stood  up  and 
looked  all  over  the  hills  and  valleys  to  see  if  he 
could  not  distinguish  a  black  object  running  over 
the  white  surface  of  the  snow,  but  he  saw  nothing 
like  a  dog,  not  even  the  track  of  one. 

Twice  he  came  across  one  of  the  other  men, 
shivering  and  swearing  from  his  saddle,  and  with 
teeth  chattering. 

"  Well,"  said  one  of  them,  shuddering,  "  you 
haven't  found  that  dog  yet,  I  see." 

"  No,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "  Oh,  no.  I've  given 
up  looking  for  the  dog.  I'm  just  driving  around 
enjoying  myself.  The  air's  so  invigorating,  and 
I  like  to  feel  the  snow  settling  between  my  collar 
and  the  back  of  my  neck." 

At  four  o'clock  Van  Bibber  was  about  as  nearly 
frozen  as  a  man  could  be  after  he  had  swallowed 
half  a  bottle  of  brandy.     It  was  so  cold  that  the 


90  LOVE    ME,  LOVE    MY   DOG 

ice  formed  on  his  cigar  when  he  took  it  from  his 
lips,  and  his  feet  and  the  dashboard  seemed  to 
have  become  stuck  together. 

"I  think  I'll  give  it  up,"  he  said,  finally,  as  he 
turned  the  horse's  head  towards  Southampton.  *'  I 
hate  to  lose  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  as  much 
as  any  man ;  but  I  love  my  fair  young  life,  and 
I'm  not  going  to  turn  into  an  equestrian  statue  in 
ice  for  anybody's  collie  dog." 

He  drove  the  cart  to  the  stable  and  unharnessed 
the  horse  himself,  as  all  the  grooms  were  out  scour- 
ing the  country,  and  then  went  upstairs  unobserved 
and  locked  himself  in  his  room,  for  he  did  not  care  to 
have  the  others  know  that  he  had  given  out  so  early 
in  the  chase.  There  w^as  a  big  open  fire  in  his  room, 
and  he  put  on  his  warm  things  and  stretched  out 
before  it  in  a  great  easy-chair,  and  smoked  and 
sipped  the  brandy  and  chuckled  with  delight  as 
he  thought  of  the  four  other  men  racing  around 
in  the  snow. 

"  They  may  have  more  nerve  than  I,"  he  solilo- 
quized, "  and  I  don't  say  they  have  not ;  but  they 
can  have  all  the  credit  and  rewards  they  want,  and 
I'll  be  satisfied  to  stay  just  where  I  am." 

At  seven  he  saw  the  four  riders  coming  back  de- 
jectedly, and  without  the  dog.  As  they  passed 
his  room  he  heard  one  of  the  men  ask  if  Van  Bib- 
ber had  got  back  yet,  and  another  say  yes,  he  had, 
as  he  had  left  the  cart  in  the  stable,  but  that  one 
of  the  servants  had  said  that  he  had  started  out 
again  on  foot. 


LOVE    ME,  LOVE    MY    DOG  91 

"  He  has,  has  he  ?"  said  the  voice.  "  Well,  he's 
got  sporting  blood,  and  he'll  need  to  keep  it  at 
fever  heat  if  he  expects  to  live.  I'm  frozen  so 
that  I  can't  bend  ray  fingers." 

Van  Bibber  smiled,  and  moved  comfortably  in 
the  big  chair  ;  he  had  dozed  a  little,  and  was  feel- 
ing very  contented.  At  half-past  seven  he  began 
to  dress,  and  at  five  minutes  to  eight  he  was  ready 
for  dinner  and  stood  looking  out  of  the  window  at 
the  moonlight  on  the  white  lawn  below.  The 
snow  had  stopped  falling,  and  everything  lay 
quiet  and  still  as  though  it  were  cut  in  marble. 
And  then  suddenly,  across  the  lawn,  came  a  black, 
bedraggled  object  on  four  legs,  limping  painfully, 
and  lifting  its  feet  as  though  there  were  lead  on 
them. 

"  Great  heavens  !"  cried  Yan  Bibber,  "  it's  the 
dog !"  He  was  out  of  the  room  in  a  moment  and 
down  into  the  hall.  He  heard  the  murmur  of 
voices  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  sympathetic 
tones  of  the  women  who  were  pitying  the  men. 
Van  Bibber  pulled  on  his  overshoes  and  a  great- 
coat that  covered  him  from  his  ears  to  his  ankles, 
and  dashed  out  into  the  snow.  The  dog  had  just 
enough  spirit  left  to  try  and  dodge  him,  and  with 
a  leap  to  one  side  went  off  again  across  the  lawn. 
It  was,  as  Van  Bibber  knew,  but  three  minutes  to 
eight  o'clock,  and  have  the  dog  he  must  and  would. 
The  collie  sprang  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the 
other,  and  snarled  and  snapped  ;  but  Van  Bibber 
was  keen  with  the  excitement  of  the  chase,  so  he 


92  LOVE   ME,  LOVE   MY   DOG 

plunged  forward  recklessly  and  tackled  the  dog 
around  the  body,  and  they  both  rolled  over  and 
over  together.  Then  Van  Bibber  scrambled  to 
his  feet  and  dashed  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
drawing-room  just  as  the  people  were  in  line  for 
dinner,  and  while  the  minute-hand  stood  at  a  min- 
ute to  eight  o'clock. 

"How  is  this ?"  shouted  Van  Bibber,  holding  up 
one  hand  and  clasping  the  dog  under  his  other  arm. 

Miss  Arnett  flew  at  the  collie  and  embraced  it, 
wet  as  it  was,  and  ruined  her  gown,  and  all  the 
men  glanced  instinctively  at  the  clock  and  said : 

"  You've  won,  Van." 

"  But  you  must  be  frozen  to  death,"  said  Miss 
Arnett,  looking  up  at  him  with  gratitude  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Van  Bibber,  beginning  to  shiv- 
er. "  I've  had  a  terrible  long  walk,  and  I  had  to 
carry  him  all  the  way.  If  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll 
go  change  my  things." 

He  reappeared  again  in  a  suspiciously  short 
time  for  one  who  had  to  change  outright,  and  the 
men  admired  his  endurance  and  paid  up  the  bet. 

"  Where  did  you  find  him.  Van  ?"  one  of  them 
asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  they  all  chorused.    "  Where  was  he  ?" 

"  That,"  said  Mr.  Van  Bibber,  "  is  a  thing  known 
to  only  two  beings,  Duncan  and  myself.  Duncan 
can't  tell,  and  I  won't.  If  I  did,  you'd  say  I  was 
trying  to  make  myself  out  clever,  and  I  never  boast 
about  the  things  I  do." 


ELEANORE  CUYLER 


ELEANORE  CUYLER 


MISS  ELEANORE  CUYLER  had  dined  alone 
with  her  mother  that  night,  and  she  was  now 
sitting  in  the  drawing-room,  near  the  open  fire, 
with  her  gloves  and  fan  on  the  divan  beside  her, 
for  she  was  going  out  later  to  a  dance. 

She  was  reading  a  somewhat  weighty  German 
review,  and  the  contrast  which  the  smartness  of 
her  gown  presented  to  the  seriousness  of  her  oc- 
cupation made  her  smile  slightly  as  she  paused 
for  a  moment  to  cut  the  leaves. 

And  when  the  bell  sounded  in  the  hall  she  put 
the  book  away  from  her  altogether,  and  wondered 
who  it  might  be. 

It  might  be  young  Wainwright,  \nih  the  proof- 
sheets  of  the  new  story  he  had  promised  to  let  her 
see,  or  flowers  for  the  dance  from  Bruce-Brice,  of 
the  English  Legation  at  Washington,  who  for  the 
time  being  was  practising  diplomatic  moves  in 
New  York,  or  some  of  her  working-girls  with  a 
new  perplexity  for  her  to  unravel,  or  only  one  of 
the  men  from  the  stable  to  tell  her  how  her  hunter 
was  getting  on  after  his  fall.  It  might  be  any  of 
these  and  more.     The  possibilities  were  diverse 


96  ELEANORE    CUYLER 

and  all  of  interest,  and  she  acknowledged  this  to 
herself,  with  a  little  sigh  of  content  that  it  was  so. 
For  she  found  her  pleasure  in  doing  many  things, 
and  in  the  fact  that  there  were  so  many.  She  re- 
joiced daily  that  she  was  free,  and  her  own  mis- 
tress in  everything  ;  free  to  do  these  many  things 
denied  to  other  young  women,  and  that  she  had 
the  health  and  j^osition  and  cleverness  to  carry 
them  on  and  through  to  success.  She  did  them  all, 
and  equally  well  and  gracefully,  whether  it  was 
the  rejection  of  a  too  ambitious  devotee  who  dared 
to  want  to  have  her  all  to  himself,  or  the  planning 
of  a  woman's  luncheon,  or  the  pushing  of  a  bill  to 
provide  kindergartens  in  the  public  schools.  But 
it  was  rather  a  relief  when  the  man  opened  the 
curtains  and  said,  "Mr.  Wainwright,"  and  Wain- 
wright  walked  quickly  towards  her,  tugging  at 
his  glove. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  see  me  so  late,"  he  said, 
speaking  as  he  entered,  "  but  I  had  to  see  you  to- 
night, and  I  wasn't  asked  to  that  dance.  I'm  go- 
ing away,"  he  went  on,  taking  his  place  by  the 
fire,  with  his  arm  resting  on  the  mantel.  He  had 
a  trick  of  standing  there  when  he  had  something 
of  interest  to  say,  and  he  was  tall  and  well-looking 
enough  to  appear  best  in  that  position,  and  she 
was  used  to  it.  He  was  the  most  frequent  of  her 
visitors. 

"  Going  away,"  she  repeated,  smiling  up  at  him; 
"not  for  long,  I  hope.  Where  are  you  going 
now  ?" 


ELEANOEE    CUTLER  97 

"  I'm  going  to  London,"  he  said.  "  They  cabled 
me  this  morning.  It  seems  they've  taken  the  play, 
and  are  going  to  put  it  on  at  once."  He  smiled, 
and  blushed  slightly  at  her  exclamation  of  pleas- 
ure. "Yes,  it  is  rather  nice.  It  seems  'Jilted' 
was  a  failure,  and  they've  taken  it  off,  and  are 
going  to  put  on  '  School,'  with  the  old  cast,  until 
they  can  get  my  play  rehearsed,  and  they  want 
me  to  come  over  and  suggest  things." 

She  stopped  him  with  another  little  cry  of  de- 
light that  was  very  sweet  to  him,  and  full  of  mo- 
ment. 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  !"  she  said.  "  How  proud 
you  must  be  !  Kow,  why  do  you  pretend  you  are 
not  ?  And  I  suppose  Tree  and  the  rest  of  them 
will  be  in  the  cast,  and  all  that  dreadful  American 
colony  in  the  stalls,  and  you  will  make  a  speech — 
and  I  won't  be  there  to  hear  it."  She  rose  sud- 
denly with  a  quick,  graceful  movement,  and  held 
out  her  hand  to  him,  which  he  took,  laughing  and 
conscious-looking  with  pleasure. 

She  sank  back  on  the  divan,  and  shook  her  head 
doubtfully  at  him.  "  When  will  you  stop  ?"  she 
said.  "  Don't  tell  me  you  mean  to  be  an  Admira- 
ble Crichton.     You  are  too  fine  for  that." 

He  looked  down  at  the  fire,  and  said,  slowly, 
"  It  is  not  as  if  I  were  trying  my  hand  at  an  en- 
tirely different  kind  of  work.  No,  I  don't  think 
I  did  wrong  in  dramatizing  it.  The  papers  all 
said,  when  the  book  first  came  out,  that  it  would 
make  a  good  play ;  and  then  so  many  men  wrote 
1 


98  ELEANOEE    CUTLER 

to  me  for  permission  to  dramatize  it  that  I  thought 
I  might  as  well  try  to  do  it  myself.  No,  I  think 
it  is  in  line  with  my  other  work.  I  don't  think  I 
am  straying  after  strange  gods." 

"  You  should  not,"  she  said,  sof  tl3^  "  The  old 
ones  have  been  so  kind  to  you.  But  you  took  me 
too  seriously,"  she  added. 

"I  am  afraid  sometimes,"  he  answered,  "that 
you  do  not  know  how  seriously  I  do  take  you."  . 
.  "Yes,  I  do,"  she  said,  quickly.  "And  Avhen  I 
am  serious,  that  is  all  very  well  ;  but  to-night  I 
only  want  to  laugh.  I  am  very  happy,  it  is  such 
good  news.  And  after  the  New  York  managers 
refusing  it,  too.  They  will  have  to  take  it  710x0, 
now  that  it  is  a  London  success." 

"Well,  it  isn't  a  London  success  yet,"  he  said, 
dryly.  "The  books  went  well  over  there  because 
the  kind  of  Western  things  I  wrote  about  met 
their  ideas  of  this  country — cowboys  and  prairies 
and  Indian  maidens  and  all  that.  And  so  I  rather 
hope  the  play  will  suit  them  for  the  same  reason." 

"And  you  will  go  out  a  great  deal,  I  hope,"  she 
said.  "  Oh,  you  will  have  to  !  You  will  find  so 
many  people  to  like,  almost  friends  already.  They 
were  talking  about  you  even  when  I  was  there, 
and  I  used  to  shine  in  reflected  glory  because  I 
knew  you." 

"Yes,  I  can  fancy  it,"  he  said.  "But  I  should 
like  to  see  something  of  them  if  I  have  time. 
Lowes  wants  me  to  stay  with  them,  and  I  suppose 
I  will.     He  would  feel  hurt  if  I  didn't.     He  has  a 


ELEANORE    CUYLEK  99 

most  absurd  idea  of  what  I  did  for  him  on  the 
ranche  when  he  had  the  fever  that  time,  and  ever 
since  he  went  back  to  enjoy  his  ill-gotten  gains 
and  his  title  and  all  that,  he  has  kept  writing  to 
me  to  come  out.  Yes,  I  suppose  I  will  stay  with 
them.     They  are  in  town  now." 

Miss  Cuyler's  face  was  still  lit  with  pleasure  at 
his  good  fortune,  but  her  smile  was  less  sponta- 
neous than  it  had  been.  "  That  will  be  very  nice. 
I  quite  envy  you,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  you 
know  about  his  sister?" 

*'The  Honorable  Evelyn?"  he  asked.  "Yes;  he 
used  to  have  a  photograph  of  her,  and  I  saw 
some  others  the  other  day  in  a  shop-window  on 
Broadway." 

"She  is  a  very  nice  girl,"  Miss  Cuyler  said, 
thoughtfully.  "I  wonder  how  you  two  will  get 
along?"  and  then  she  added,  as  if  with  sudden 
compunction,  "but  I  am  sure  you  will  like  her 
very  much.     She  is  very  clever,  besides." 

"  I  don't  know  how  a  professional  beauty  will 
wear  if  one  sees  her  every  day  at  breakfast,"  he 
said.  "One  always  associates  them  with  func- 
tions and  varnishing  days  and  lawn-parties.  You 
will  write  to  me,  will  you  not?"  he  added. 

"That  sounds," she  said,  "as  though  you  meant 
to  be  gone  such  a  very  long  time." 

He  turned  one  of  the  ornaments  on  the  mantel 
with  his  fingers,  and  looked  at  it  curiously.  "It 
depends,"  he  said,  slowly — "  it  depends  on  so 
many  things.     No,"  he  went  on,  looking  at  her  ; 


100  ELEANORE    CUTLER 

"it  does  not  depend  on  many  things;  just  on 
one." 

Miss  Cuyler  looked  up  at  him  questioningly, 
and  then  down  again  very  quickly,  and  reached 
meaninglessly  for  the  book  beside  her.  She  saw 
something  in  his  face  and  in  the  rigidity  of  his 
position  that  made  her  breathe  more  rapidly. 
She  had  not  been  afraid  of  this  from  him,  be- 
cause she  had  always  taken  the  attitude  towards 
him  of  a  very  dear  friend  and  of  one  who  was 
older,  not  in  years,  but  in  experience  of  the  world, 
for  she  had  lived  abroad  while  he  had  gone  from 
the  university  to  the  West,  which  he  had  made 
his  own,  in  books.     They  were  both  very  young. 

She  did  not  want  him  to  say  anything.  She 
could  only  answer  him  in  one  way,  and  in  a  way 
that  would  hurt  and  give  pain  to  them  both.  She 
had  hoped  he  could  remain  just  as  he  w^as,  a  very 
dear  friend,  with  a  suggestion  sometimes  in  the 
background  of  his  becoming  something  more. 
She  was,  of  course,  too  experienced  to  believe  in 
a  long  platonic  friendship. 

'  Uppermost  in  her  mind  was  the  thought  that, 
no  matter  what  he  urged,  she  must  remember 
that  she  wanted  to  be  free,  to  live  her  own  life, 
to  fill  her  own  sphere  of  usefulness,  and  she  must 
not  let  him  tempt  her  to  forget  this.  She  had 
next  to  consider  him,  and  that  she  must  be  hard 
and  keep  him  from  speaking  at  all ;  and  this  was 
very  difficult,  for  she  cared  for  him  very  dearly. 
She  strengthened  her  determination  by  thinking 


ELEANOEE    CUYLER  101 

of  his  going  away,  and  of  how  glad  she  would  be 
when  he  had  gone  that  she  had  committed  her- 
self to  nothing.  This  absence  would  be  a  test  for 
both  of  them  ;  it  could  not  have  been  better  had 
it  been  arranged  on  purpose.  She  had  ideas  of 
what  she  could  best  do  for  those  around  her,  and 
she  must  not  be  controlled  and  curbed,  no  matter 
how  strongly  she  might  think  she  wished  it.  She 
must  not  give  way  to  the  temptation  of  the  mo- 
ment, or  to  a  passing  mood.  And  then  there  were 
other  men.  She  had  their  photographs  on  her 
dressing-table,  and  liked  each  for  some  qualities 
the  others  did  not  possess  in  such  a  degree  ;  but 
she  liked  them  all  because  no  one  of  them  had 
the  right  to  say  *'  must  "  or  even  "  you  might " 
to  her,  and  she  fancied  that  the  moment  she  gave 
one  of  them  this  right  she  would  hate  him  cord- 
ially, and  would  fly  to  the  others  for  sympathy  ; 
and  she  was  not  a  young  woman  who  thought 
that  matrimony  meant  freedom  to  fly  to  any  one 
but  her  husband  for  that.  But  this  one  of  the 
men  was  a  little  the  worst ;  he  made  it  harder 
for  her  to  be  quite  herself.  She  noticed  that 
when  she  was  with  him  she  talked  more  about 
her  feelings  than  with  the  other  men,  with  whom 
she  was  satisfied  to  discuss  the  play,  or  what  girl 
they  wanted  to  take  into  dinner.  She  had  touches 
of  remorse  after  these  confidences  to  Wainwright, 
and  wrote  him  brisk,  friendly  notes  the  next 
morning,  in  which  the  words  "your  friend"  were 
always  sure  to  appear,  either  markedly  at  the  be- 


102  EEEANOEE    CUYLER 

ginning  or  at  the  end,  or  tucked  away  in  the  mid- 
dle. She  thought  by  this  to  unravelthe  web  she 
might  have  woven  tlie  day  before.  But  she  had 
apparently  failed.  She  stood  up  suddenly  from 
pure  nervousness,  and  crossed  the  room  as  though 
she  meant  to  go  to  the  piano,  which  was  a  very 
unfortunate  move,  as  she  seldom  played,  and 
never  for  him.  She  sat  down  before  it,  never- 
theless, rather  hopelessly,  and  crossed  her  hands 
in  front  of  her.  He  had  turned,  and  followed 
her  with  his  eyes  ;  they  were  very  bright  and 
eager,  and  her  own  faltered  as  she  looked  at 
them. 

"You  do  not  show  much  interest  in  the  one 
thing  that  will  bring  me  back,"  he  said.  He 
spoke  reproachfully  and  yet  a  little  haughtily,  as 
though  he  had  already  half  suspected  she  had 
guessed  what  he  meant  to  say. 

"Ah,  you  cannot  tell  how  long  you  will  be 
there,"  she  said,  lightly.  "  You  will  like  it  much 
more  than  you  think.  I- — "  she  stopped  hopelessly, 
and  glanced,  without  meaning  to  do  so,  at  tlie 
clock-face  on  the  mantel  beside  him. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  with  quick  misunderstanding, 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  keeping  you.  I  forgot 
how  late  it  was,  and  you  are  going  out."  He 
came  towards  her  as  though  he  meant  to  go.  She 
stood  up  and  made  a  quick,  impatient  gesture 
with  her  hands.  He  was  making  it  very  hard  for 
her. 
•    "  Fancy  !"  she  said.    "  You  know  I  want  to  talk 


ELEANOKE    CUYLER  lOS 

to  you  ;  what  does  the  dance  matter?  Why  are 
you  so  unlike  yourself?"  she  went  on,  gently. 
"And  it  is  our  last  night,  too." 

The  tone  of  her  words  seemed  to  reassure  him, 
for  he  came  nearer  and  rested  his  elbow  beside 
her  on  the  piano  and  caid,  "  Then  you  are  sorry 
that  I  am  going  ?" 

It  was  very  hard  to  be  unyielding  to  him  when 
he  spoke  and  looked  as  he  did  then  ;  but  she  re- 
peated to  herself,  "He  will  be  gone  to-morrow, 
and  then  I  shall  be  so  thankful  that  I  did  not  bind 
myself — that  I  am  still  free.  He  will  be  gone,  and 
I  shall  be  so  glad.  It  will  only  be  a  minute  now 
before  he  goes,  and  if  I  am  strong  I  will  rejoice 
at  leisure."  So  she  looked  up  at  him  without  a 
sign  of  the  effort  it  cost  her,  frankly  and  openly, 
and  said,  "  Sorry  ?  Of  course  I  am  sorry.  One 
does  not  have  so  many  friends  that  one  can  spare 
them  for  long,  even  to  have  them  grow  famous. 
I  think  it  is  very  selfish  of  you  to  go,  for  you  are' 
famous  enough  already." 

As  he  looked  at  her  and  heard  her  words  run- 
ning on  smoothly  and  meaninglessly,  he  knew 
that  it  was  quite  useless  to  speak,  and  he  grew 
suddenly  colder,  and  sick,  and  furious  at  once  with 
a  confused  anger  and  bitterness.  And  then,  for  he 
was  quite  young,  so  young  that  he  thought  it  was 
the  manly  thing  to  do  to  carry  his  grief  off  lightly 
instead  of  rather  being  proud  of  his  love,  how- 
ever she  might  hold  it, — he  drew  himself  up  and 
began  pulling  carefully  at  his  glove. 


104  ELEANORE    CUYLEE 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  slowly,  *'  I  fancy  the  change 
will  be  very  pleasant."  He  was  not  thinking  of 
liis  words  or  of  how  thoughtless  they  must  sound. 
He  was  only  anxious  to  get  away  without  show- 
ing how  deeply  he  was  hurt.  If  he  had  not  done 
this  ;  if  he  had  let  her  see  how  miserable  he  was, 
and  that  plays  and  books  and  such  things  were 
nothing  to  him  now,  and  that  she  was  just  all 
there  was  in  the-  whole  world  to  him,  it  might 
have  ended  differently.  But  he  was  untried,  and 
young.  So  he  buttoned  the  left  glove  with  care- 
ful scrutiny  and  said,  "They  alwaj^s  start  those 
boats  at  such  absurd  hours  ;  the  tides  never  seem 
to  suit  one  ;  you  have  to  go  on  board  without 
breakfast,  or  else  stay  on  board  the  night  before, 
and  that's  so  unpleasant.  Well,  I  hope  you  will 
enjoy  the  dance,  and  tell  them  I  was  very  much 
hurt  that  I  wasn't  asked." 

He  held  out  his  hand  quite  steadily.  "I  will 
write  you  if  you  will  let  me,"  he  went  on,  "  and 
send  you  word  where  I  am  as  soon  as  I  know." 
She  took  his  hand  and  said,  "  Good-by,  and  I 
hope  it  will  be  a  grand  success  :  I  know  it  will. 
And  come  back  soon;  and,  yes,  do  write  to  me. 
I  hope  you  will  have  a  very  pleasant  voyage." 

He  had  reached  the  door  and  stopped  uncer- 
tainly at  the  curtains.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said  ; 
and  *'  Oh,"  he  added,  politely,  "  will  you  say 
good-by  to  your  mother  for  me,  please  ?" 

She  nodded  her  head  and  smiled  and  said, 
"  Yes  ;  I  will  not  forget.     Good-by." 


ELEANORE    CUYLER  105 

She  did  not  move  until  she  heard  the  door  close 
upon  him,  and  then  she  turned  towards  the 
window  as  though  she  could  still  follow  him 
through  the  closed  blinds,  and  then  she  walked 
over  to  the  divan  and  picked  up  her  fan  and 
gloves  and  remained  looking  down  at  them  in 
her  hand.  The  room  seemed  very  empty.  She 
glanced  at  the  place  where  he  had  stood  and  at 
the  darkened  windows  again,  and  sank  down  very 
slowly  against  the  cushions  of  the  divan,  and 
pressed  her  hands  against  her  cheeks. 

She  did  not  hear  the  rustle  of  her  mother's 
dress  as  she  came  down  the  stairs  and  parted  the 
curtains. 

"  Are  you  ready,  Eleanore  ?"  she  said,  briskly. 
"  Tell  me,  how  does  this  lace  look?  I  think  there 
is  entirely  too  much  of  it." 

It  was  a  month  after  this,  simultaneously  with 
the  announcements  by  cable  of  the  instant  suc- 
cess in  London  of  "A  Western  Idj^l,"  that  Miss 
Cuyler  retired  from  the  world  she  knew,  and 
disappeared  into  darkest  New  York  by  the  way 
of  Rivington  Street.  She  had  discovered  one 
morning  that  she  was  not  ill  nor  run  down  nor 
overtaxed,  but  just  mentally  tired  of  all  things, 
and  that  what  she  needed  was  change  of  air  and 
environment,  and  unselfish  work  for  the  good  of 
others,  and  less  thought  of  herself.  Her  mother's 
physician  suggested  to  her,  after  a  secret  and 
hasty  interview  with  Mrs.  Cuyler,  that  change  of 


106  ELEANORE    CUYLER 

air  was  good,  but  that  the  air  of  Rivington  Street 
was  not  of  the  best ;  and  her  friends,  both  men 
and  women,  assured  her  that  they  appreciated 
her  much  more  than  the  people  of  the  east  side 
possibly  could  do,  and  that  they  were  much  more 
worthy  of  her  consideration,  and  in  a  fair  way  of 
improvement  yet  if  she  would  only  continue  to 
shine  upon  and  before  them.  But  she  was  deter- 
mined in  her  purpose,  and  regarded  the  College 
Settlement  as  the  one  opening  and  refuge  for 
the  energies  which  had  too  long  been  given  to 
the  arrangement  of  paper  chases  across  country, 
and  the  routine  of  society,  and  dilettante  interest 
in  kindergartens.  Life  had  become  for  her  real 
and  earnest,  and  she  rejected  Briice-Brice  of  the 
British  Legation  with  the  sad  and  hopeless  kind- 
ness of  one  who  almost  contemplates  taking  the 
veil,  and  to  whom  the  things  of  this  world  out- 
side of  tenements  are  hollow  and  unprofitable. 
She  found  a  cruel  disappointment  at  first,  for  the 
women  of  the  College  Settlement  had  rules  and 
ideas  of  their  own,  and  had  seen  enthusiasts  like 
herself  come  into  Rivington  Street  before,  and 
depart  again.  She  had  thought  she  would  nurse 
the  sick  and  visit  the  prisoners  on  the  Island,  and 
bring  cleanliness  and  hope  into  miserable  lives, 
but  she  found  that  this  was  the  work  of  women 
tried  in  the  service,  who  understood  it,  and  who 
made  her  first  serve  her  apprenticeship  by  read- 
ing the  German  Bible  to  old  women  whose  eyes 
were  dim,  but  who  were  as  hopelessly  clean  and 


"'are  you   ready,   ELEANORE  ?'    SHE   ASKED,   BRISKLY. 


ELEANORE    CITYLER  107 

quite  as  self-respecting  in  their  way  as  herself. 
The  heroism  and  the  self-sacrifice  of  a  Father 
Daraien  or  a  Florence  Nightingale  were  not  for 
her  ;  older  and  wiser  young  women  saw  to  that 
work  with  a  quiet  matter-of-fact  cheerfulness 
and  a  common-sense  that  bewildered  her.  And 
they  treated  her  kindly,  but  indulgently,  as  an 
outsider.  It  took  her  some  time  to  understand 
this,  and  she  did  not  confess  to  herself  without 
a  struggle  that  she  was  disappointed  in  her  own 
usefulness  ;  bat  she  brought  herself  to  confess  it 
to  her  friends  "  uptown,"  when  she  visited  that 
delightful  country  from  which  she  was  self-exiled. 
She  went  there  occasionally  for  an  afternoon's 
rest  or  to  a  luncheon  or  a  particularly  attractive 
dinner,  but  she  always  returned  to  the  Settlement 
at  night,  and  this  threw  an  additional  interest 
about  her  to  her  friends — an  interest  of  which  she 
was  ashamed,  for  she  knew  how  little  she  was 
really  doing,  and  that  her  sacrifice  was  one  of 
discomfort  merely.  The  good  she  did  now,  it  was 
humiliating  to  acknowledge,  was  in  no  way  pro- 
portionate to  that  which  her  influence  Iiad  wrought 
among  people  of  her  own  class. 

And  what  made  it  very  hard  was  that  wher- 
ever she  went  they  seemed  to  talk  of  him.  Now 
it  would  be  a  girl  just  from  the  other  side  who 
had  met  him  on  the  terrace  of  the  Lower  House, 
"  where  he  seemed  to  know  every  one,"  and 
another  had  driven  with  him  to  Ascot,  where  he 
had  held  the  reins,  and   had  shown   them  what 


108  ELEANOEE    CUYLER 

a  man  who  had  guided  a  mail-coach  one  whole 
winter  over  the  mountains  for  a  living  could  do 
with  a  coach  for  pleasure.  And  many  of  the  men 
had  met  him  at  the  clubs  and  at  house  parties  in 
the  country,  and  they  declared  with  enthusiastic 
envy  that  he  was  no  end  of  a  success.  Her  Eng- 
lish friends  all  w^rote  of  him,  and  wanted  to  know 
all  manner  of  little  things  concerning  him,  and 
hinted  that  they  understood  they  were  very  great 
friends.  The  papers  seemed  to  be  always  having 
him  doing  something,  and  there  was  apparently 
no  one  else  in  London  who  could  so  properly  re- 
spond to  the  toasts  of  America  at  all  the  public 
dinners.  She  had  had  letters  from  him  herself — 
of  course  bright,  clever  ones — that  suggested  what 
a  wonderfully  full  and  happy  life  his  was,  but 
with  no  reference  to  his  return.  He  was  living 
with  his  young  friend  Lord  Lowes,  and  went  ev- 
erywhere with  him  and  his  people  ;  and  then  as 
a  final  touch,  which  she  had  already  anticipated, 
people  began  to  speak  of  him  and  the  Honorable 
Evelyn.  What  could  be  more  natural?  they  said. 
He  had  saved  her  brother's  life  while  out  West 
half  a  dozen  times  at  least,  from  all  accounts  ; 
and  he  was  rich,  and  well-looking,  and  well-born, 
and  rapidly  becoming  famous. 

A  young  married  w^oman  announced  it  at  a  girls' 
luncheon.  She  had  it  from  her  friend  the  Mar- 
chioness of  Pelby,  who  w^as  Evelyn's  first-cousin. 
So  far,  only  the  family  had  been  told  ;  but  all 
London  knew  it,  and  it  was  said  that  Lord  Lowes 


ELEANORE   CUTLER  109 

was  very  mufch  pleased.  One  of  the  girls  at  the 
table  said  you  never  could  tell  about  those  things  ; 
she  had  no  doubt  the  Marchioness  of  Pelby  was 
an  authority,  but  she  would  wait  until  she  got 
their  wedding-cards  before  she  believed  it.  For 
some  reason  this  girl  did  not  look  at  Miss  Cuyler, 
and  Miss  Cuyler  felt  grateful  to  her,  and  thought 
she  was  a  nice,  bright  little  thing ;  and  then  an- 
other girl  said  it  was  only  turn  about.  The  Eng- 
lishmen had  taken  all  the  attractive  American 
girls,  and  it  was  only  fair  that  the  English  girls 
should  get  some  of  the  nice  American  men.  This 
girl  was  an  old  friend  of  Eleanore's  ;  but  she  was 
surprised  at  her  making  such  a  speech,  and  won- 
dered why  she  had  not  noticed  in  her  before  sim- 
ilar exhibitions  of  bad  taste.  She  walked  back 
to  Rivington  Street  from  the  luncheon  ;  compos- 
ing the  letter  she  would  write  to  him,  congratu- 
lating him  on  his  engagement.  She  composed 
several.  Some  of  them  were  very  short  and 
cheery,  and  others  rather  longer  and  full  of  rem- 
iniscences. She  wondered  with  sudden  fierce  bit- 
terness how  he  could  so  soon  forget  certain  walks 
and  afternoons  they  had  spent  together  ;  and  the 
last  note,  which  she  composed  in  bed,  was  a  very 
sad  and  scornful  one,  and  so  pathetic  as  a  work 
of  composition  that  she  cried  a  little  over  it,  and 
went  to  sleep  full  of  indignation  that  she  had  cried. 
She  told  herself  the  next  morning  that  she  had 
cried  because  she  was  frankly  sorry  to  lose  the 
companionship  of  so  old  and  good  a  friend,  and 


110  ELEANOEE   CUYLER 

because  now  that  she  had  been  given  much  more 
important  work  to  do,  she  was  naturally  saddened 
by  the  life  she  saw  around  her,  and  weakened  by 
the  foul  air  of  the  courts  and  streets,  and  the 
dreary  environments  of  the  tenements.  As  for 
him,  she  was  happy  in  his  happiness  ;  and  she 
pictured  how  some  day,  when  he  proudly  brought 
his  young  bride  to  this  country  to  show  her  to  his 
friends,  he  would  ask  after  her.  And  they  would 
say  :  "  Who  !  Eleanore  Cuyler  ?  Why,  don't  you 
know  ?  While  you  were  on  your  honeymoon  she 
was  in  the  slums,  where  she  took  typhoid  fever 
nursing  a  child,  and  died  !"  Or  else  some  day, 
when  she  had  grown  into  a  beautiful  sweet-faced 
old  lady,  with  white  hair,  his  wife  would  die,  and 
he  would  return  to  her,  never  having  been  very 
happy  with  his  first  wife,  but  having  nobly  hidden 
from  her  and  from  the  world  his  true  feelings. 
He  would  find  lier  working  among  the  poor,  and 
would  ask  her  forgiveness,  and  she  could  not  quite 
determine  whether  she  would  forgive  him  or  not. 
These  pictures  comforted  her  even  while  they  sad- 
dened her,  and  she  went  about  her  work,  feeling 
that  it  was  now  lier  life's  work,  and  that  she  was 
in  reality  an  old,  old  woman.  The  rest,  she  was 
sure,  was  but  a  weary  waiting  for  the  end. 

It  was  about  six  months  after  this,  in  the  early 
spring,  while  Miss  Cuyler  was  still  in  Rivington 
Street,  that  young  Van  Bibber  invited  his  friend 
Travers  to  dine  with  liim,  and  go  on  later  to  the 


ELEANORE    CUTLER  111 

People's  Theatre,  on  the  Bovv^eiy,  where  Irving 
Willis,  the  Boy  Actor,  was  playing  "  Nick  of  the 
Woods."  Travers  despatched  a  hasty  and  joyous 
note  in  reply  to  this  to  the  effect  that  he  would  be 
on  hand.  He  then  went  off  with  a  man  to  try  a 
horse  at  a  riding  academy,  and  easily  and  promptly 
forgot  all  about  it.  He  did  remember,  as  he  was 
dressing  for  dinner,  that  he  had  an  appointment 
somewhere,  and  took  some  consolation  out  of  this 
fact,  for  he  considered  it  a  decided  step  in  advance 
when  he  could  remember  that  he  had  an  engage- 
ment, even  if  he  could  not  recall  what  it  was.  The 
stern  mental  discipline  necessary  to  do  this  latter 
would,  he  hoped,  come  in  time.  So  he  dined  unwar- 
ily at  home,  and  was,  in  consequence,  seized  upon 
by  his  father,  who  sent  him  to  the  opera,  as  a  substi- 
tute for  himself,  with  his  mother  and  sisters,  while 
he  went  off  delightedly  to  his  club  to  play  whist. 

Travers  did  not  care  for  the  opera,  and  sat  in 
the  back  of  the  box  and  dozed,  and  wondered 
moodily  what  so  many  nice  men  saw  in  his  sisters 
to  make  them  want  to  talk  to  them.  It  was  mid- 
night, and  just  as  he  had  tumbled  into  bed,  when 
the  nature  of  his  original  engagement  came  back 
to  him,  and  his  anger  and  disappointment  were  so 
intense  that  he  kicked  the  clothes  over  the  foot 
of  his  bedstead. 

As  for  Van  Bibber,  he  knew  his  friend  too  well 
to  wait  for  him,  and  occupied  a  box  at  the  Peo- 
ple's Theatre  in  solitary  state,  and  from  its  depths 
gurgled  with  delight  whenever  the  Boy  Actor 


112  ELEANORE    CUYLER 

escaped  being  run  over  by  a  real  locomotive,  or 
in  turn  rescued  the  stout  heroine  from  six  red- 
shirted  cowboys.  There  were  quite  as  many  sud- 
den deaths  and  lofty  sentiments  as  he  had  expected, 
and  he  left  the  theatre  with  the  pleased  satisfac- 
tion of  an  evening  well  spent  and  with  a  pitying 
sympathy  for  Travers  who  had  missed  it.  The 
night  was  pleasant  and  filled  with  the  softness  of 
early  spring,  and  Van  Bibber  turned  up  the  Bow- 
ery with  a  cigar  between  his  teeth  and  no  deter- 
mined purpose  except  the  one  that  he  did  not 
intend  to  go  to  bed.  The  streets  were  still  crowd- 
ed, and  the  lights  showed  the  many  types  of  this 
"Thieves'  Highway"  with  which  Van  Bibber,  in 
his  many  excursions  in  search  of  mild  adventure, 
had  become  familiar.  They  were  so  familiar  that 
the  unfamiliarity  of  the  hurrying  figure  of  a  girl 
of  his  own  class  who  passed  in  front  of  him  down 
Grand  Street  brought  him,  abruptly  wondering,  to 
a  halt.  She  had  passed  directly  under  an  electric 
light,  and  her  dress,  and  walk,  and  bearing  he 
seemed  to  recognize,  but  as  belonging  to  another 
place.  What  a  girl,  well-born  and  well-dressed, 
could  be  doing  at  such  an  hour  in  such  a  neigh- 
borhood aroused  his  curiosity  ;  but  it  was  rather 
with  a  feeling  of  noblesse  oblige^  and  a  hope  of 
being  of  use  to  one  of  his  own  people,  that  he 
crossed  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  and  fol- 
lowed her.  She  was  evidently  going  somewhere  ; 
that  was  written  in  every  movement  of  her  regu- 
lar quick  walk  and  her  steadfast  look  ahead.    Her 


ELEANOKE    CUYLER  113 

veil  hid  the  upper  part  of  her  face,  and  the  pass- 
ing crowd  shut  her  sometimes  entirely  from  view  ; 
but  Van  Bibber,  himself  unnoticed,  succeeded  in 
keeping  her  in  sight,  while  he  speculated  as  to 
the  nature  of  her  errand  and  her  personality.  At 
Eldridge  Street  she  turned  sharply  to  the  north, 
and,  without  a  change  in  her  hurrying  gait,  passed 
on  quickly,  and  turned  again  at  Rivington.  "  Oh," 
said  Van  Bibber,  with  relieved  curiosity,  "  one  of 
the  College  Settlement,"  and  stopped  satisfied. 
But  the  street  had  now  become  deserted,  and 
though  he  disliked  the  idea  of  following  a  woman, 
even  though  she  might  not  be  aware  of  his  doing 
so,  he  disliked  even  more  the  idea  of  leaving  her 
to  make  her  way  in  such  a  place  alone.  And  so 
he  started  on  again,  and  as  there  was  now  more 
likelihood  of  her  seeing  him  in  the  empty  street, 
he  dropped  farther  to  the  rear  and  kept  in  the 
shadow  ;  and  as  he  did  so,  he  saw  a  man,  whom  he 
had  before  noticed  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  quicken  his  pace  and  draw  nearer  to  the 
girl.  It  seemed  impossible  to  Van  Bibber  that 
any  man  could  mistake  the  standing  of  this  woman 
and  the  evident  purpose  of  her  haste  ;  but  the  man 
was  apparently  settling  his  pace  to  match  hers, 
as  if  only  waiting  an  opportunity  to  approach  her. 
Van  Bibber  tucked  his  stick  under  his  arm  and 
moved  forward  more  quickly.  It  was  midnight, 
and  the  street  w^as  utterly  strange  to  him.  From 
the  light  of  the  lamps  he  could  see  signs  in  He- 
brew and  the  double  eagle  of  Russia  painted  on 
8 


114  ELEANOEE   CUTLER 

the  windows  of  the  saloons.  Long  rows  of  trucks 
and  drays  stood  ranged  along  the  pavements  for 
the  night,  and  on  some  of  the  stoops  and  fire- 
escapes  of  the  tenements  a  few  dwarfish  speci- 
mens of  the  Polish  Jew  sat  squabbling  in  their 
native  tongue. 

But  it  was  not  until  they  had  reached  Orchard 
Street,  and  when  Rivington  Street  was  quite  emp- 
ty, that  the  man  drew  up  uncertainly  beside  the 
girl,  and,  bending  over,  stared  up  in  her  face,  and 
then,  walking  on  at  her  side,  surveyed  her  delib- 
erately from  head  to  foot.  For  a  few  steps  the 
girl  moved  on  as  apparently  unmindful  of  his  near 
presence  as  though  he  were  a  stray  dog  running 
at  her  side ;  but  when  he  stepped  directly  in  front 
of  her,  she  stopped  and  backed  away  from  him 
fearfully.  The  man  hesitated  for  an  instant,  and 
then  came  on  after  her,  laughing. 

Van  Bibber  had  been  some  distance  in  the  rear. 
He  reached  the  curb  beside  them  just  as  the  girl 
turned  back,  with  the  man  still  following  her,  and 
stepped  in  between  them.  He  had  come  so  sud- 
denly from  out  of  the  darkness  that  they  both 
started.  Van  Bibber  did  not  look  at  the  man.  He 
turned  to  the  girl,  and  raised  his  hat  slightly,  and 
recognized  Eleanore  Cuyler  instantly  as  he  did  so  ; 
but  as  she  did  not  seem  to  remember  him  he  did 
not  call  her  by  name,  but  simply  said,  with  a  jerk 
of  his  head,  "  Is  this  man  annoying  you  ?" 

Miss  Cuyler  seemed  to  wish  before  everything 
else  to  avoid  a  scene. 


ELEANORE    CUYLER  116 

"  He — he  just  spoke  to  me,  that  is  all,"  she  said. 
"I  live  only  a  block  below  here  ;  if  you  will  please 
let  me  go  on  alone,  I  would  be  very  much  obliged." 

"  Certainly,  do  go  on,"  said  Van  Bibber,  *'  but 
I  shall  have  to  follow  you  until  you  get  in-doors. 
You  needn't  be  alarmed,  no  one  will  speak  to 
you."  Then  he  turned  to  the  man,  and  said,  in  a 
lower  tone,  "You  wait  here  till  I  get  back,  will 
you  ?     I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

The  man  paid  no  attention  to  him  whatsoever. 
He  was  so  far  misled  by  Van  Bibber's  appearance 
as  to  misunderstand  the  situation  entirely.  "  Oh, 
come  now,"  he  said,  smiling  knowingly  at  the 
girl,  *'you  can't  shake  me  for  no  dude." 

He  put  out  his  hand  as  he  spoke  as  though  he 
meant  to  touch  her.  Van  Bibber  pulled  his  stick 
from  under  his  arm  and  tossed  it  out  of  his  way, 
and  struck  the  man  twice  heavily  in  the  face.  He 
was  very  cool  and  determined  about  it,  and  pun- 
ished him,  in  consequence,  much  more  eifectively 
than  if  his  indignation  had  made  him  excited. 
The  man  gave  a  howl  of  pain,  and  scumbled  back- 
wards over  one  of  the  stoops,  where  he  dropped 
moaning  and  swearing,  with  his  fingers  pressed 
against  his  face. 

^^  Please,  now,"  begged  Van  Bibber,  quickly 
turning  to  Miss  Cuyler,  "  I  am  very  sorry,  but  if 
you  had  only  gone  when  I  asked  you  to."  He  mo- 
tioned impatiently  with  his  hand.  "  Will  you 
please  goV" 

But  the  girl,  to  his   surprise,  stood   still  and 


116  ELEANORE    CUTLER 

looked  past  him  over  his  shoulder.  Van  Bibber 
motioned  again  for  her  to  pass  on,  and  then,  as 
she  still  hesitated,  turned  and  glanced  behind 
him.  The  street  had  the  blue-black  look  of  a 
New  York  street  at  night.  There  was  not  a  light- 
ed window  in  the  block.  It  seemed  to  have  grown 
suddenly  more  silent  and  dirty  and  desolate-look- 
ing. He  could  see  the  glow  of  the  elevated  sta- 
tion at  Second  Avenue,  and  it  seemed  fully  a  half- 
mile  away.  Save  for  the  girl  and  the  groaning 
fool  on  the  stoop,  and  the  three  figures  closing 
in  on  him,  he  was  quite  alone.  The  foremost  of 
the  three  men  stopped  running,  and  came  up 
briskly  with  his  finger  held  interrogatively  in 
front  of  him.  He  stopped  when  it  was  within  a 
foot  of  Van  Bibber's  face. 

"Are  you  looking  for  a  fight?"  he  asked. 

There  was  enough  of  the  element  of  the  sport 
in  Van  Bibber  to  enable  him  to  recognize  the 
same  element  in  the  j^oung  man  before  him.  He 
knew  that  this  was  no  whimpering  blackguard 
who  followed  women  into  side  streets  to  insult 
them  ;  this  was  one  of  the  purest  specimens  of 
the  tough  of  the  East-Side  water-front,  and  he  and 
his  companions  w'ould  fight  as  readily  as  Van 
Bibber  would  smoke — and  they  would  not  fight 
fair.  The  adventure  had  taken  on  a  grim  and 
serious  turn,  and  Van  Bibber  gave  an  impercep- 
tible shrug  and  a  barely  audible  exclamation  of 
disgust  as  he  accepted  it. 

"  Because,"  continued  his  new  opponent  with 


ELEANOEE   CUYLER  117 

business-like  briskness,  "if  you're  looking  for  a 
fight,  you  can  set  right  to  me.  You  needn't  think 
you  can  come  down  here  and  run  things — you — " 
He  followed  this  with  an  easy  roll  of  oaths,  in- 
tended to  goad  his  victim  into  action. 

A  reformed  prize-fighter  had  once  told  Van 
Bibber  that  there  were  six  rules  to  observe  in  a 
street  fight.  He  said  he  had  forgotten  the  first 
five,  but  the  sixth  one  was  to  strike  first.  Van 
Bibber  turned  his  head  towards  Miss  Cuyler. 
"  You  had  better  run,"  lie  said,  over  his  shoulder ; 
and  then,  turning  quickly,  he  brought  his  left  fist, 
with  all  the  strength  and  weight  of  his  arm  and 
body  back  of  it,  against  the  end  of  the  new-com- 
er's chin. 

This  is  a  most  effective  blow.  This  is  so  be- 
cause the  lower  jaw  is  anatomically  loose;  and 
when  it  is  struck  heavily,  it  turns  and  jars  the 
brain,  and  the  man  who  is  struck  feels  as  though 
the  man  who  struck  him  had  opened  the  top  of 
his  skull  and  taken  his  brains  in  his  hand  and 
wrenched  them  as  a  brakeman  wrenches  a  brake. 
If  you  shut  your  teeth  hard,  and  rap  the  tip  of 
your  chin  sharply  with  your  knuckles,  you  can 
get  an  idea  of  how  effective  this  is  when  multi- 
plied by  an  arm  and  all  the  muscles  of  a  shoulder. 

The  man  threw  up  his  arms  and  went  over  back- 
wards, groping  blindly  with  his  hands. 

Van  Bibber  heard  a  sharp  rapping  behind  him 
frequently  repeated  ;  he  could  not  turn  to  see 
what  it  was,  for  one  of  the  remaining  men  was 


118  ELEANOEE    CUYLER 

engaging  him  in  front,  and  the  other  was  kicking 
at  his  knee-cap,  and  striking  at  his  head  from  be- 
hind. Pie  was  no  longer  cool  ;  he  was  grandly 
and  viciously  excited  ;  and,  rushing  past  his  oppo- 
nent, he  caught  {lim  over  his  hip  with  his  left  arm 
across  his  breast,  and  so  tossed  him,  using  his  hip 
for  a  lever. 

A  man  in  this  position  can  be  thrown  so  that 
he  will  either  fall  as  lightly  as  a  baby  falls  from 
his  i^illow  to  the  bed,  or  with  sufficient  force  to 
break  his  ribs.  Van  Bibber,  being  excited,  threw 
him  the  latter  wa3\  Seeing  this,  the  second  man, 
who  had  so  far  failed  to  find  Van  Bibber's  knee- 
cap, backed  rapidly  away,  with  his  hands  in  front 
of  him. 

"  Here,"  lie  cried,  "  lem'rae  alone  ;  I'm  not  in 
this." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  are,"  cried  Van  Bibber,  gasping, 
but  with  fierce  politeness.  "  Excuse  me,  but  you 
are.     Put  up  your  hands  ;  I'm  going  to  kill  yoii.''^ 

He  had  a  throbbing  feeling  in  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  his  breathing  was  difficult.  He  could 
still  hear  the  heavy,  irregular  rapping  behind  him, 
but  it  had  become  confused  with  the  throbbing  in 
his  head.     "  Put  up  your  hands,"  he  panted. 

The  third  man,  still  backing  away,  placed  his 
arms  in  a  position  of  defence,  and  Van  Bibber 
beat  them  down  savagelj',  and  caught  him  by  the 
throat  and  pounded  him  until  his  arm  was  tired, 
and  he  had  to  drop  him  at  his  feet. 

As  he  turned  dizzily,  he  heard  a  sharp  answer- 


ELEANOEE    CUTLER  119 

ing  rap  down  the  street,  and  saw  coming  towards 
him  the  burly  figure  of  a  policeman  running  heav- 
ily and  throwing  his  night-stick  in  front  of  him 
by  its  leather  thong,  so  that  it  struck  reverberat- 
ing echoes  out  of  the  pavement. 

And  then  he  saw  to  his  amazement  that  Miss 
Cuyler  was  still  with  him,  standing  by  the  curb 
and  beating  it  with  his  heavy  walking-stick  as 
calmly  as  though  she  were  playing  golf,  and  look- 
ing keenly  up  and  down  the  street  for  possible 
aid.  Van  Bibber  gazed  at  her  with  breathless 
admiration. 

"Good  heavens  !"  he  panted,  "  didn't  I  ask  you 
please  to  go  home  ?" 

The  policeman  passed  them  and  dived  uncer- 
tainly down  a  dark  area-way  as  one  departing 
figure  disappeared  into  the  open  doorway  of  a 
tenement,  on  his  way  to  the  roof,  and  the  legs  of 
another  dodged  between  the  line  of  drays. 

*'  Where'd  them  fellows  go  ?"  gasped  the  officer, 
instantly  reappearing  up  the  steps  of  the  base- 
ment. 

"How  should  I  know?"  answered  Van  Bibber, 
and  added,  with  ill-timed  lightness,  "  they  didn't 
leave  any  address."  The  officer  stared  at  him 
with  severe  suspicion,  and  then  disappeared  again 
under  one  of  the  trucks. 

"  I  am  very,  very  much  obliged  to  jow^  Miss 
Cuyler,"  Van  Bibber  said.  He  tried  to  raise  his 
hat,  but  the  efforts  of  the  gentleman  who  had 
struck  him  from  behind  had  been  successful,  and 


120  ELEANOEE   CUTLER 

the  hat  came  off  only  after  a  wrench  that  made 
him  wince. 

"  You  were  very  brave,"  he  went  on.  "  And  it 
was  very  good  of  you  to  stand  by  me.  You  won't 
mind  my  saying  so,  now,  will  you  ?  But  you  gave 
the  wrong  rap.  I  hadn't  time  to  tell  you  to 
change  it."  He  mopped  the  back  of  his  head 
tenderly  with  his  handkerchief,  and  tried  to  smile 
cheerfully.  "You  see,  you  were  giving  the  rap," 
he  explained  politely,  "for  a  fire-engine  ;  but  it's  of 
no  consequence."  Miss  Cuyler  came  closer  to  him, 
and  he  saw  that  her  face  showed  sudden  anxiety. 

"  Mr.  Van  Bibber  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  I 
didn't  know  it  was  you  !  I  didn't  know  it  was 
any  one  who  knew  me.    What  will  you  think  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Van  Bibber,  blankly. 

"  You  must  not  believe,"  she  went  on,  quickly, 
"  that  I  am  subject  to  this  sort  of  thing.  Please 
do  not  imagine  I  am  annoyed  down  here  like  this. 
It  has  never  happened  before.  I  was  nursing  a 
woman,  and  her  son,  who  generally  goes  home  with 
me,  was  kept  at  the  works,  and  I  thought  I  could 
risk  getting  back  alone.  You  see,"  she  explained, 
as  Van  Bibber's  face  showed  he  was  still  puzzled, 
"  my  people  do  not  fancy  my  living  down  here  ; 
and  if  they  should  hear  of  this  they  would  never 
consent  to  my  remaining  another  day,  and  it  means 
so  much  to  me  now." 

"  They  need  not  hear  of  it,"  Van  Bibber  an- 
swered, sympathetically.  "  They  certainly  won't 
from  me,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 


ELEANORE   CUTLER  121 

The  officer  had  returned,  and  interrupted  them 
brusquely.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  not  re- 
ceiving proper  attention. 

"  Say,  what's  wrong  here  ?"  he  demanded.  "  Did 
that  gang  take  anything  off'n  you." 

"  They  did  not,"  said  Van  Bibber.  ''  They  held 
me  up,  but  they  didn't  take  nothin'  off'n  of  me." 

The  officer  flushed  uncomfortably,  and  was  cer- 
tain now  that  he  was  being  undervalued.  He 
surveyed  the  blood  running  down  over  Van  Bib- 
ber's collar  with  a  smile  of  malicious  satisfac- 
tion. 

"They  done  you  up,  anyway,"  he  suggested. 

*'  Yes,  they  done  me  up,"  assented  Van  Bibber, 
cheerfully,  *'  and  if  you'd  come  a  little  sooner 
they'd  done  you  up  too. " 

He  stepped  to  Miss  Cuyler's  side,  and  they 
walked  on  down  the  street  to  the  College  Settle- 
ment in  silence,  the  policeman  following  uncertain- 
ly in  the  rear. 

"  I  haven't  thanked  you,  Mr.  Van  Bibber, "  said 
Miss  Ciiyler.  "It  was  really  fine  of  you,  and 
most  exciting.  You  must  be  very  strong.  I  can't 
imagine  how  you  happened  to  be  there,  but  it 
was  most  fortunate  for  me  that  you  were.  If  you 
had  not,  I—" 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,  "said  Van  Bibber,  hurried- 
ly. I  haven't  had  so  much  fun  without  paying 
for  it  for  a  long  time.  Fun,"  he  added,  medita- 
tively, "  costs  so  much." 

"And  you  will  be  so  good,  then,  as  not  to  speak 


122  ELEANORE    CUTLER 

of  it,"  she  said,  as  she  gave  liim  her  hand  at  the 
door. 

"Of  course  not.  Why  should  I?"  said  Van 
Bibber,  and  then  his  face  beamed  and  clouded 
again  instantly.  "But,  oh,"  he  begged,  "Pm 
afraid  I'll  have  to  tell  Travers  !  Oh,  please  let 
me  tell  Travers  !  I'll  make  him  promise  not  to 
mention  it,  but  it's  too  good  a  joke  on  him,  when 
you  think  what  he  missed.  You  see,"  he  added, 
hastily,  "  we  were  to  have  gone  out  together,  and 
he  forgot,  as  usual,  and  missed  the  whole  thing, 
and  he  wasn't  in  it,  and  it  will  just  about  break 
his  heart.  He's  always  getting  grinds  on  me," 
he  went  on,  persuasively,  "  and  now  I've  got  this 
on  him.  You  will  really  have  to  let  me  tell  Trav- 
ers." 

Miss  Cuyler  looked  puzzled  and  said  "  Certain- 
ly," though  she  failed  to  see  why  Mr.  Travers 
should  want  his  head  broken,  and  then  she  thanked 
Van  Bibber  again  and  nodded  to  the  officer  and 
went  in-doors. 

The  policeman,  who  had  listened  to  the  closing 
speeches,  looked  at  Van  Bibber  with  dawning  ad- 
miration. 

"Now  then,  officer,"  said  Van  Bibber,  briskly, 
"  which  of  the  saloons  around  here  break  the  law 
by  keeping  open  after  one?  You  probably  know, 
and  if  you  don't  I'll  have  to  take  your  number." 
And  peace  being  in  this  way  restored,  the  two 
disappeared  together  into  the  darkness  to  breal^ 
the  law. 


ELEANOEE    CUYLER  123 

Van  Bibber  told  Travers  about  it  the  next 
morning,  and  Travers  forgot  he  was  not  to  men- 
tion it,  and  told  the  next  man  he  met.  By  one 
o'clock  the  story  had  grown  in  his  telling,  and 
Van  Bibber's  reputation  had  grown  with  it. 

Travers  found  three  men  breakfasting  together 
at  the  club,  and  drew  up  a  chair.  "Have  you 
heard  the  joke  Van  Bibber's  got  on  me?"  he 
asked,  sadly,  by  way  of  introduction. 

Wainwriorht  was  sittins:  at  the  next  table  with 
his  back  to  them.  He  had  just  left  the  customs 
officers,  and  his  wonder  at  the  dirtiness  of  the 
streets  and  height  of  the  buildings  had  given  way 
to  the  pleasure  of  being  home  again,  and  before 
the  knowledge  that  "  old  friends  are  best."  He 
had  meant  to  return  again  immediately  as  soon  as 
he  had  arranged  for  the  production  of  his  play  in 
New  York  ;  his  second  play  was  to  be  brought 
out  in  London  in  a  month.  But  the  heartiness 
of  his  friends'  greetings,  and  the  anxiety  of  men 
to  be  recognized  who  had  been  mere  acquaint- 
ances hitherto,  had  touched  and  amused  him. 
He  was  too  young  to  be  cynical  over  it,  and  he 
was  glad,  on  the  wliole,  that  he  had  come  back. 

His  mind  was  wide  awake,  and  shifting  from 
one  pleasant  thought  to  another,  when  he  heard 
Travers's  voice  behind  him  raised  impressively. 
"  And  they  both  went  at  Van  hammer  and  tongs," 
he  heard  Travers  say,  "  one  in  front  and  the  oth- 
er behind,  kicking  and  striking  all  over  the  shop. 
And,"  continued  Travers,  interrupting  himself  sud- 


124  ELEANOEE   CUYLER 

denly  with  a  shrill  and  anxious  tone  of  inter- 
rogation, "where  was  I  while  this  was  going 
on?  That's  the  pathetic  part  of  it — where  was 
I?"  His  voice  rose  to  almost  a  shriek  of  dis- 
appointment, "i"  was  sitting  in  a  red-silk  box 
listening  to  a  red-silk  opera  with  a  lot  of  girls 
— that's  what  I  was  doing.  I  wasn't  in  it  ;  I 
wasn't.     I — " 

"  Well,  never  mind  what  you  were  doing,"  said 
one  of  the  men,  soothingly;  "you  weren't  in  it, 
as  you  say.     Return  to  the  libretto." 

"  Well,"  continued  Travers,  meekly,  "  let  me 
see  ;  where  was  I  ?" 

"You  w^ere  in  a  red-silk  box,"  suggested  one  of 
the  men,  reaching  for  the  coffee. 

"Go  on,  Travers,"  said  the  first  man.  "The 
two  men  were  kicking  Van  Bibber." 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Travers.  " W^ell,  Van  just 
threw  the  first  fellow  over  his  head,  and  threw  him 
hard.  He  must  have  broken  his  ribs,  for  the  sec- 
ond fellow  tried  to  get  away,  and  begged  off,  but 
Van  wouldn't  have  it,  and  rushed  him.  He  got  the 
tough's  head  under  his  arm,  and  pummelled  it  till 
his  arm  ached,  and  then  he  threw  him  into  the 
street,  and  asked  if  any  other  gentleman  would  like 
to  try  his  luck.  That's  what  Van  did,  and  he  told 
me  not  to  tell  any  one,  so  I  hope  you  will  not  men- 
tion it.  But  I  had  to  tell  you,  because  I  w^ant  to 
know  if  you  have  ever  met  a  harder  case  of  hard 
luck  than  that.  Think  of  it,  will  you  ?  Think  of 
me  sitting  there  in  a  red-silk  box  listening  to  a — " 


ELEANORE   CUTLER  125 

"What  did  the  girl  do?"  interrupted  one  of 
the  men. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Travers,  hastily;  "that's  the 
best  part  of  it  ;  that's  the  plot — the  girl.  Kow, 
who  do  you  think  the  girl  was?"  He  looked 
around  the  table  proudly,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  is  sure  of  his  climax. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?"  one  man  said.  "  Some 
actress  going  home  from  the  theatre,  maybe — " 

"  No,"  said  Travers.  "  It's  a  girl  you  all  know." 
He  paused  impressively.  "What  would  you  say 
now,"  he  went  on,  dropping  his  voice,  "  if  I  was 
to  tell  you  it  was  Eleanore  Cuyler  ?" 

The  three  men  looked  up  suddenly  and  at  each 
other  with  serious  concern.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence.  "  Well,"  said  one  of  them,  softly, 
"  that  is  rather  nasty." 

"  Now,  what  I  want  to  know  is,"  Travers  ran 
on,  elated  at  the  sensation  his  narrative  had  made 
— "what  I  want  to  know  is,  where  is  that  girl's 
mother,  or  sister,  or  brother?  Have  they  any- 
thing to  say  ?  Has  any  one  anything  to  say  ? 
Why,  one  of  Eleanore  Cuyler's  little  fingers  is 
worth  more  than  all  the  East  and  West  Side  put  to- 
gether ;  and  she  is  to  be  allowed  to  run  risks  like — " 

Wainwright  pushed  his  chair  back,  and  walked 
out  of  the  room. 

"See  that  fellow,  quick,"  said  Travers  ;  "that's 
Wainwright  who  writes  plays  and  things.  He's  a 
thoroughbred  sport,  too,  and  he  just  got  back 
from  London.     It's  in  the  afternoon  papers." 


126  ELEA.NOEE   CUYLER 

Miss  Cuyler  was  reading  to  Mrs.  Lockmuller, 
who  was  old  and  bedridden  and  cross.  Under  the 
influence  of  Eleanore's  low  voice  she  frequently 
went  to  sleep,  only  to  wake  and  demand  ungrate- 
fully why  the  reading  had  stopped. 

Miss  Cuyler  was  very  tired.  It  was  close  and 
hot,  and  her  head  ached  a  little,  and  the  prospect 
across  the  roofs  of  the  other  tenements  was  not 
cheerful.  Neither  was  the  thought  that  she  was 
to  spend  her  summer  making  working-girls  happy 
on  a  farm  on  Long  Island. 

She  had  grown  sceptical  as  to  working-girls, 
and  of  the  good  she  did  them — or  any  one  else. 
It  was  all  terribly  dreary  and  forlorn,  and  she 
wished  she  could  end  it  by  putting  her  head  on 
some  broad  shoulder  and  by  being  told  that  it 
didn't  matter,  and  that  she  was  not  to  blame  if 
the  world  Avould  be  wicked  and  its  people  unre- 
pentant and  ungrateful.  Corrigan,  on  the  third 
floor,  was  drunk  again  and  promised  trouble.  His 
voice  ascended  to  the  room  in  which  she  sat,  and 
made  her  nervous,  for  she  was  feeling  the  reaction 
from  the  excitement  of  the  night  before.  There 
were  heavy  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  a  child's 
shrill  voice  cried,  "  She's  in  there,"  and,  suspect- 
ing it  might  be  Corrigan,  she  looked  up  fearfully, 
and  then  the  door  opened  and  she  saw  the  most 
magnificent  and  the  handsomest  being  in  the 
world.  His  magnificence  was  due  to  a  Bond 
Street  tailor,  who  had  shown  how  very  small  a 
waist  will  go  with  very  broad  shoulders ;  and  if 


ELEANORE    CUTLER  127 

he  was  lianclsome,  that  was  the  tan  of  a  week  at 
sea.  But  it  was  not  the  tan,  nor  the  unusual 
length  of  his  coat,  that  Eleanore  saw,  but  the  eager, 
confident  look  in  his  face — and  all  she  could  say- 
was,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Wainwright,"  feebly. 

Wainwright  waved  away  all  such  trifling  bar- 
riers as  "Mister"  and  "Miss."  He  came  towards 
her  with  his  face  stern  and  determined.  "Elea- 
nore," he  said,  "  I  have  a  hansom  at  the  door,  and 
I  want  you  to  come  down  and  get  into  it." 

Was  this  the  young  man  she  had  been  used  to 
scold  and  advise  and  criticise  ?  She  looked  at  him 
wondering  and  happy.  It  seemed  to  rest  iier  eyes 
just  to  see  him,  and  she  loved  his  ordering  her  so, 
until  a  flash  of  miserable  doubt  came  over  her 
that  if  he  was  -confident,  it  was  because  he  was 
not  only  sure  of  himself,  but  of  some  one  else  on 
the  other  side  of  the  sea. 

And  all  her  pride  came  to  her,  and  thankfulness 
that  she  had  not  shown  him  what  his  coming 
meant,  and  she  said,  "Did  my  mother  send  you? 
How  did  you  come?     Is  anything  wrong?" 

He  took  her  hand  in  one  of  his  and  put  his  other 
on  top  of  it  firmly.  "Yes,"  he  said.  "Every- 
thing is  wrong.     But  we'll  fix  all  that." 

He  did  not  seem  able  to  go  on  immediately,  but 
just  looked  at  her.  "Eleanore,"  he  said,  "I  have 
been  a  fool,  all  sorts  of  a  fool.  I  came  over  here 
to  go  back  again  at  once,  and  I  am  going  back, 
but  not  alone.  I  have  been  alone  too  long.  I 
had  begun  to  fancy  there  was  only  one  woman  in 


128  ELEANORE   CUTLER 

the  world  until  I  came  back,  and  then — something 
some  man  said  proved  to  me  there  was  another 
one,  and  that  she  was  the  only  one,  and  that  I — 
had  come  near  losing  her.  I  had  tried  to  forget 
about  her.  I  had  tried  to  harden  myself  to  her 
by  thinking  she  had  been  hard  to  me.  I  said — she 
does  not  care  for  you  as  the  woman  you  love 
must  care  for  you,  but  it  doesn't  matter  now 
whether  she  cares  or  not,  for  I  love  her  so.  I 
want  her  to  come  to  me  and  scold  me  again,  and 
tell  me  how  unworthy  I  am,  and  make  me  good 
and  true  like  herself,  and  happy.  The  rest  doesn't 
count  without  her,  it  means  nothing  to  me  unless 
she  takes  it  and  keeps  it  in  trust  for  me,  and  shares 
it  with  me."  He  had  both  her  hands  now,  and  was 
pressing  them  against  the  flowers  in  the  breast  of 
the  long  coat. 

"  Eleanore,"  he  said,  *'  I  tried  to  tell  you  once  of 
the  one  thing  that  would  bring  me  back  and  you 
stopped  me.     Will  you  stop  me  now?" 

She  tried  to  look  up  at  hira,  but  she  would  not 
let  him  see  the  happiness  in  her  face  just  then, 
and  lowered  it  and  gently  said,  **  No,  no." 

It  must  have  taken  him  a  long  time  to  tell  it, 
for  after  he  had  driven  them  twice  around  the 
Park  the  driver  of  the  hansom  decided  that  he 
could  ask  eight  dollars  at  the  regular  rates,  and 
might  even  venture  on  ten,  and  the  result  showed 
that  as  a  judge  of  human  nature  he  was  a  success. 

They  were  married  in  May,  and  Lord  Lowes 
acted  as  best  man,  and  his  sister  sent  her  warmest 


ELEANORE   CUTLER  129 

congratulations  and  a  pair  of  silver  candlesticks 
for  the  dinner-table,  which  Wainwright  thought 
were  very  handsome  indeed,  but  which  Miss 
Cuyler  considered  a  little  showy.  Van  Bibber 
and  Travers  were  ushers,  and,  indeed,  it  was  Yan 
Bibber  himself  who  closed  the  door  of  the  carriage 
upon  them  as  they  were  starting  forth  after  the 
wedding.  Mrs.  Wainwright  said  something  to 
her  husband,  and  he  laughed  and  said,  "  Van, 
Mrs.  Wainwright  says  she's  much  obliged." 

"Yes?"  said  Yan  Bibber,  pleased  and  eager, 
putting  his  head  through  the  window  of  the  car- 
riage. "What  for,  Mrs.  Wainwright — the  chaf- 
ing-dish ?     Travers  gave  half,  you  know." 

And  then  Mrs.  Wainwright  said,  "  No ;  not 
for  the  chaiing-dish." 

And  they  drove  off,  laughing. 

"  Look  at  'em,"  said  Travers,  morosely.  "  They 
don't  think  the  wheels  are  going  around,  do  they  ? 
They  think  it  is  just  the  earth  revolving  with  them 
on  top  of  it,  and  nobody  else.  We  don't  have  to 
say  *  please '  to  no  one,  not  much  !  We  can  do  just 
what  we  jolly  well  please,  and  dine  when  we  please 
and  wherever  we  please.  You  say  to  me,  Travers, 
let's  go  to  Pastor's  to-night,  and  I  say,  I  won't, 
and  you  say  I  won't  go  to  the  Casino,  because  I 
don't  want  to,  and  there  you  are,  and  all  we  have 
to  do  is  to  agree  to  go  somewhere  else." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Van  Bibber,  dreamily,  as  he 
watched  the  carriage  disappear  down  the  avenue, 
"  what  brings  a  man  to  the  proposing  point?" 
9 


130  ELEANOEE   CUYLER 

"Some  other  man,"  said  Travers,  promptly. 
"  Some  man  he  thinks  has  more  to  do  for  the  girl 
than  he  likes." 

"Who,"  persisted  Van  Bibber,  innocently,  "do 
you  think  was  the  man  in  that  case  ?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  exclaimed  Travers,  im- 
patiently, waving  away  such  unprofitable  dis- 
cussion with  a  sweep  of  his  stick,  and  coming 
down  to  the  serious  affairs  of  life.  "What  I 
want  to  know  is  to  what  theatre  we  are  going 
— that's  what  I  want  to  know." 


A  RECRUIT  AT  CHRISTMAS 


A  KECKUIT  AT  CHKISTMAS 


YOUNG  Lieutenant  Claflin  left  the  Brooklyn 
-  Navy-yard  at  an  early  hour,  and  arrived  at 
the  recruiting-office  at  ten  o'clock.  It  was  the 
day  before  Christmas,  and  even  the  Bowery,  "  the 
thieves'  highway,"  had  taken  on  the  emblems 
and  spirit  of  the  season,  and  the  young  officer 
smiled  grimly  as  he  saw  a  hard-faced  proprietor 
of  a  saloon  directing  the  hanging  of  wreaths  and 
crosses  over  the  door  of  his  palace  and  telling 
the  assistant  barkeeper  to  make  the  red  holly 
berries  "  show  up  "  better. 

The  cheap  lodging-houses  had  trailed  the  green 
over  their  illuminated  transoms,  and  even  on  Mott 
Street  the  Chinamen  had  hung  up  strings  of  ever- 
green over  the  doors  of  the  joss-house  and  the 
gambling-house  next  door.  And  the  tramps  and 
good-for-nothings,  just  back  from  the  Island,  had 
an  animated,  expectant  look,  as  though  something 
certainly  was  going  to  happen. 

Lieutenant  Claflin  nodded  to  Corporal  Goddard 
at  the  door  of  the  recruiting-office,  and  startled 
that  veteran's  rigidity,  and  kept  his  cotton-gloved 
hand  at  his  visor  longer  than  the  Regulations 


134  A   RECRUIT   AT   CHRISTMAS 

required,  by  saying,  "  Wish  you  merry  Christ- 
mas," as  he  jumped  up  the  stairs. 

The  recruiting-office  was  a  dull,  blank-looking 
place,  the  view  from  the  windows  was  not  inspir- 
ing, and  the  sight  of  the  plump  and  black-eyed 
Jewess  in  front  of  the  pawn-shop  across  the 
street,  who  was  a  vision  of  delight  to  Corporal 
Goddard,  had  no  attractions  to  the  officer  upstairs. 
He  put  on  his  blue  jacket,  with  the  black  braid 
down  the  front,  lighted  a  cigar,  and  wrote  letters 
on  every  other  than  official  matters,  and  forgot 
about  recruits.  He  was  to  have  leave  of  absence 
on  Christmas,  and  though  the  others  had  de- 
nounced him  for  leaving  the  mess-table  on  that 
day,  they  had  forgiven  him  when  he  explained 
that  he  was  going  to  spend  it  with  his  people  at 
home.  The  others  had  homes  as  far  away  as  San 
Francisco  and  as  far  inland  as  Milwaukee,  and 
some  called  the  big  ship  of  war  home  ;  but  Claflin's 
people  lived  up  in  Connepticut,  and  he  could  reach 
them  in  a  few  hours.  He  was  a  very  lucky  man, 
the  others  said,  and  he  felt  very  cheerful  over  it, 
and  forgot  the  blank-looking  office  with  its  Rules 
and  Regulations,  and  colored  prints  of  uniforms^ 
and  models  of  old  war-ships,  and  tin  boxes  of  offi- 
cial-documents which  were  to  be  filled  out  and  sent 
to  "  the  Honorable,  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy." 

Corporal  Goddard  on  the  stoop  below  shifted 
from  ^e  foot  to  the  other,  and  chafed  his  gloved 
hands  softly  together  to  keep  them  warm.  He 
had  no  time  to  write  letters  on  unofficial  writing- 


A   RECRUIT   AT   CHRISTMAS  135 

paper,  nor  to  smoke  cigars  or  read  novels  with 
his  feet  on  a  chair,  with  the  choice  of  looking 
out  at  the  queer  stream  of  human  life  moving  by 
below  the  window  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Bowery.  He  had  to  stand  straight,  which  came 
easily  to  him  now,  and  to  answer  questions  and 
urge  doubtful  minds  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  gov- 
ernment's marines. 

A  drunken  man  gazed  at  Ogden's  colored  pict- 
ures of  the  American  infantry,  cavalry,  and  ma- 
rine uniforms  that  hung  before  the  door,  and 
placed  an  unsteady  finger  on  the  cavalry -man's 
picture,  and  said  he  chose  to  be  one  of  those. 
Corporal  Goddard  told  him  severely  to  be  off  and 
get  sober  and  grow  six  inches  before  he  thought 
of  such  a  thing,  and  frowned  him  off  the  stoop. 

Then  two  boys  from  the  country  asked  about 
the  service,  and  went  off  very  quickly  when  they 
found  they  would  have  to  remain  in  it  for  three 
years  at  least.  A  great  many  more  stopped  in 
front  of  the  gay  pictures  and  gazed  admiringly 
at  Corporal  Goddard's  bright  brass  buttons  and 
brilliant  complexion,  which  they  innocently  at- 
tributed to  exposure  to  the  sun  on  long,  weary 
marches.  But  no  one  came  to  offer  himself 
in  earnest.  At  one  o'clock  Lieutenant  Claflin 
changed  his  coat  and  went  down-town  to  lun- 
cheon, and  came  back  still  more  content  and  in 
feeling  with  the  season,  and  lighted  another  cigar. 

But  just  as  he  had  settled  himself  comfortably 
he  heard  Corporal  Goddard's  step  on  the  stairs 


136  A   KECEUIT   AT    CHRISTMAS 

and  a  less  determined  step  behind  him.  He  took 
his  feet  down  from  the  rung  of  the  other  chair, 
pulled  his  undress  jacket  into  place,  and  took  up 
a  pen. 

Corporal  Goddard  saluted  at  the  door  and  in- 
troduced with  a  wave  of  his  hand  the  latest  ap- 
plicant for  Uncle  Sam's  service.  The  applicant 
was  as  young  as  Lieutenant  Claiiin,  and  as  good- 
looking  ;  but  he  was  dirty  and  unshaven,  and  his 
eyes  were  set  back  in  the  sockets,  and  his  fingers 
twitched  at  his  side.  Lieutenant  Claflin  had 
seen  many  applicants  in  this  stage.  He  called  it 
the  remorseful  stage,  and  was  used  to  it. 

"  Name  ?"  said  Lieutenant  Claflin,  as  he  pulled 
a  printed  sheet  of  paper  towards  him. 

The  applicant  hesitated,  then  he  said, 

"Walker— John  Walker." 

The  Lieutenant  noticed  the  hesitation,  but  he 
merely  remarked  to  himself,  "It's  none  of  my 
business,"  and  added,  aloud,  "Nationality?"  and 
w^rote  United  States  before  the  applicant  an- 
swered. 

The  applicant  said  he  was  unmarried,  was 
twenty  three  years  old,  and  had  been  born  in 
New  York  City.  Even  Corporal  Goddard  knew 
this  last  was  not  so,  but  it  was  none  of  his 
business,  either.  He  moved  the  applicant  up 
against  the  wall  under  the  measuring-rod,  and 
brought  it  down  on  the  his  head. 

So  he  measured  and  weighed  the  applicant,  and 
tested  his  eyesight  with  printed  letters  and  bits  of 


A   KECRUIT   AT   CHKISTMAS  137 

colored  yarn,  and  the  lieutenant  kept  tally  on  the 
sheet,  and  bit  the  end  of  his  pen  and  watched  the 
applicant's  face.  There  were  a  great  many  appli- 
cants, and  few  were  chosen,  but  none  of  them  had 
quite  the  air  about  him  which  this  one  had.  Lieu- 
tenant Claflin  thought  Corporal  Goddard  was  just 
a  bit  too  callous  in  the  way  he  handled  the  appli- 
cant, and  too  peremptory  in  his  questions;  but  he 
could  not  tell  why  Corporal  Goddard  treated  them 
all  in  that  way.  Then  the, young  officer  noticed 
that  the  applicant's  white  face  was  flushing,  and 
that  he  bit  his  lips  when  Corporal  Goddard  pushed 
him  towards  the  weighing-machine  as  he  would 
have  moved  a  barrel  of  flour. 

"You'll  answer,"  said  Lieutenant  Claflin,  glanc- 
ing at  the  sheet.  "Your  average  is  very  good. 
All  you've  got  to  do  now  is  to  sign  this,  and  then 
it  will  be  over."  But  he  did  not  let  go  of  the 
sheet  in  his  hand,  as  he  would  have  done  had  he 
wanted  it  over.  Neither  did  the  applicant  move 
forw^ard  to  sign. 

"  After  you  have  signed  this,"  said  the  young 
officer,  keeping  his  eyes  down  on  the  paper  before 
him,  "  you  will  have  become  a  servant  of  the 
United  States;  you  will  sit  in  that  other  room 
until  the  office  is  closed  for  to-day,  and  then  you 
will  be  led  over  to  the  Navy-yard  and  put  into  a 
uniform,  and  from  that  time  on  for  three  years 
you  will  have  a  number,  the  same  number  as  the 
one  on  your  musket.  You  and  the  musket  will 
both  belong  to  the  government.     You  will  clean 


138  A   EECEUIT   AT   CHKISTMAS 

and  load  the  musket,  and  fight  with  it  if  God  ever 
gives  us  the  chance  ;  and  the  government  will  feed 
you  and  keep  you  clean,  and  fight  with  you  if 
needful." 

The  lieutenant  looked  up  at  the  corporal  and 
said,  "You  can  go,  Goddard,"  and  the  corporal 
turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  downstairs,  wonder- 
ing. 

"You  may  spend  the  three  years,"  continued 
the  officer,  still  without  looking  at  the  applicant, 
"  which  are  the  best  years  of  a  young  man's  life, 
on  the  sea,  visiting  foreign  ports,  or  you  may 
spend  it  marching  up  and  down  the  Brooklyn 
Navy-yard  and  cleaning  brass-work.  There  are 
some  men  who  are  meant  to  clean  brass- work  and 
to  march  up  and  down  in  front  of  a  stone  arsenal, 
and  who  are  fitted  for  nothing  else.  But  to  every 
man  is  given  something  which  should  tell  him  that 
he  is  put  here  to  make  the  best  of  himself.  Every 
man  has  that,  even  the  men  who  are  only  fit  to 
clean  brass  rods  ;  but  some  men  kill  it,  or  try  to 
kill  it,  in  different  ways,  generally  by  rum.  And 
they  are  as  generally  successful,  if  they  keep  the 
process  up  long  enough.  The  government,  of 
which  I  am  a  very  humble  representative,  is  al- 
ways glad  to  get  good  men  to  serve  her,  but  it 
seems  to  me  (and  I  may  be  wrong,  and  I'm  quite 
sure  that  I  am  speaking  contrary  to  Regulations) 
that  some  of  her  men  can  serve  her  better  in 
other  ways  than  swabbing  down  decks.  Now,  you 
know  yourself  best.     It  may  be  that  you  are  just 


I 


A   RECRUIT   AT   CHRISTMAS  139 

the  sort  of  man  to  stand  up  and  salute  the  ladies 
when  they  come  on  board  to  see  the  ship,  and  to 
watch  them  from  for'ard  as  they  walk  about  with 
the  officers.  You  won't  be  allowed  to  speak  to 
them  ;  you  will  be  number  329  or  328,  and  what- 
ever benefits  a  good  woman  can  give  a  man  will 
be  shut  off  from  you,  more  or  less,  for  three 
years. 

"  And,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  that  there 
are  some  good  women  who  could  keep  you  on 
shore,  and  help  you  to  do  something  more  with 
yourself  than  to  carry  a  musket.  And,  again,  it 
may  be  that  if  you  stayed  on  shore  you  would 
drink  yourself  more  or  less  comfortably  to  death, 
and  break  somebody's  heart.  I  can't  tell.  But  if 
I  were  not  a  commissioned  officer  of  the  United 
States,  and  a  thing  of  Rules  and  Regulations  who 
can  dance  and  wear  a  uniform,  and  a  youth  gen- 
erally unfit  to  pose  as  an  example,  I  would  advise 
you  not  to  sign  this,  but  to  go  home  and  brace  up 
and  leave  whiskey  alone. 

"Now,  what  shall  we  do?"  said  the  young 
lieutenant,  smiling  ;  "  shall  we  tear  this  up,  or 
will  you  sign  it  ?" 

The  applicant's  lips  were  twitching  as  well  as 
his  hands  now,  and  he  rubbed  his  cuff  over  his 
face  and  smiled  back. 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  he  said, nervously. 
"  That  sounds  a  rather  flat  thing  to  say,  I  know, 
but  if  you  knew  all  I  meant  by  it,  though,  it 
would  mean  enough.     I've  made  a  damned  fool  of 


140  A   RECRUIT   AT    CHRISTMAS 

myself  in  this  city,  but  nothing  worse.  And  it 
was  a  choice  of  the  navy,  where  they'd  keep  me 
straight,  or  going  to  the  devil  my  own  way.  But 
it  won't  be  my  own  way  now,  thanks  to  you.  I 
don't  know  how  you  saw  how  it  was  so  quickly  ; 
but,  you  see,  I  have  got  a  home  back  in  Connecti- 
cut, and  women  that  can  help  me  there,  and  I'll  go 
back  to  them  and  ask  them  to  let  me  start  in  again 
where  I  was  when  I  went  away." 

"That's  good,"  said  the  young  officer,  cheer- 
fully ;  "  that's  the  way  to  talk.  Tell  me  where 
you  live  in  Connecticut,  and  I'll  lend  you  the  car- 
fare to  get  there.  I'll  expect  it  back  with  interest, 
you  know,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  rejected  applicant. 
"  It's  not  so  far  but  that  I  can  walk,  and  I  don't 
think  you'd  believe  in  me  if  I  took  money." 

**  Oh,  yes,  I  would,"  said  the  lieutenant.  "  How 
much  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  but  I'd  rather  walk,"  said  the 
other.  "  I  can  get  there  easily  enough  by  to-mor- 
row. I'll  be  a  nice  Christmas  present,  won't  I  ?" 
he  added,  grimly. 

"  You'll  do,"  said  the  young  officer.  "  I  fancy 
you'll  be  about  as  welcome  a  one  as  they'll  get." 
He  held  out  his  hand  and  the  other  shook  it,  and 
walked  out  with  his  shoulders  as  stiff  as  those  of 
Corporal  Goddard. 

Then  he  came  back  and  looked  into  the  room 
shyly.  "  I  say,"  he  said,  hesitatingly.  The  lieu- 
tenant   ran    his    hand    down    into    his    pocket. 


A  RECRUIT   AT   CHRISTMAS  141 

"  You've  changed  your  mind  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 
"  That's  good.     How  much  will  you  want  ?" 

The  rejected  applicant  flushed.  "  No,  not  that," 
he  said.  "I  just  came  back  to  say — wish  you  a 
merry  Christmas." 


A  PATEON  OF  AET 


A   PATEO:tT   OF  AKT 


YOUNG  Carstairs  and  his  Avife  had  a  studio 
at  Fifty-seventh  Street  and  Sixth  Avenue, 
where  Carstairs  painted  pictures  and  Mrs.  Car- 
stairs  mended  stockings  and  wrote  letters  home 
to  her  people  in  Vermont.  Young  Carstairs  had 
had  a  picture  in  the  Salon,  and  was  getting  one 
ready  for  the  Academy,  which  he  hoped  to  have 
accepted  if  he  lived  long  enough  to  finish  it.  They 
were  very  poor.  Not  so  poor  that  there  was  any 
thought  of  Carstairs  starving  to  death,  but  there 
was  at  least  a  possibility  that  he  would  not  be 
able  to  finish  his  picture  in  the  studio,  for  which 
he  could  not  pay  the  rent.  He  was  very  young 
and  had  no  business  to  marry;  but  she  was  willing, 
and  her  people  had  an  idea  it  would  come  out  all 
right.  They  had  only  three  hundred  dollars  left, 
and  it  was  mid-winter. 

Carstairs  went  out  to  sketch  Broadway  at  One 
Hundred  and  Fifty-ninth  Street,  where  it  is  more 
of  a  country  road  than  anything  else,  and  his 
hands  almost  froze  while  he  was  getting  down 
the  black  lines  of  the  bare  trees,  and  the  deep, 
irregular  ruts  in  the  road,  where  the  mud  showed 
10 


146  A   PATRON    OF   ART 

through  the  snow.  He  intended  to  put  a  yellow 
sky  behind  this,  and  a  house  with  smoke  coming 
out  of  the  chimney,  and  with  red  light  shining 
through  the  window,  and  call  it  Winter, 

A  horse  and  buggy  stopped  just  back  of  him, 
and  he  was  conscious  from  the  shadows  on  the 
snow  that  the  driver  was  looking  down  from  his 
perch. 

Carstairs  paid  no  attention  to  his  spectator. 
He  was  used  to  working  with  Park  policemen  and 
nursery-maids  looking  over  his  shoulder  and  mak- 
ing audible  criticisms  or  giggling  hysterically.  So 
he  sketched  on  and  became  unconscious  of  the  shad- 
ow falling  on  the  snow  in  front  of  him;  and  when 
he  looked  up  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  and 
noticed  that  the  shadow  was  still  there,  he  smiled 
at  the  tribute  such  mute  attention  paid  his  work. 
When  the  sketch  was  finished  he  leaned  back  and 
closed  one  eye,  and  moved  his  head  from  side  to 
side  and  surveyed  it  critically.  Then  he  heard  a 
voice  over  his  shoulder  say,  in  sympathetic  tones, 
"Purty  good,  isn't  it?"  He  turned  and  smiled 
at  his  critic,  and  found  him  to  be  a  fat,  red-faced 
old  gentleman,  wrapped  in  a  great  fur  coat  with 
fur  driving-gloves  and  fur  cap. 

"  You  didn't  mind  my  watching  you,  did  you  ?" 
asked  the  old  gentleman. 

Carstairs  said  no,  he  did  not  mind.  The  other 
said  that  it  must  be  rather  cold  drawing  in  such 
weather,  and  Carstairs  said  yes,  it  was  ;  but  that 
you  couldn't  get  winter  and  snow  in  June. 


A   PATRON    OF   ART  147 

"Exactly,"  said  the  driver;  "you've  got  to  take 
it  as  it  comes.     How  are  you  going  back  ?" 

Carstairs  said  he  would  walk  to  One  Hundred 
and  Fifty-fifth  Street  and  take  the  elevated. 

"  You'd  better  get  in  here,"  said  the  older  man. 
"Do  you  know  anything  about  trotting?"  Car- 
stairs  got  in,  and  showed  that  he  did  know  some- 
thing about  trotting  by  his  comments  on  the  mare 
in  front  of  him.  This  seemed  to  please  the  old 
gentleman,  and  he  beamed  on  Carstairs  approv- 
ingly. He  asked  him  a  great  many  questions 
about  his  work,  and  told  him  that  he  owned  sev- 
eral good  pictures  himself,  but  admitted  that  it 
was  at  his  wife's  and  daughter's  suggestion  that 
he  had  purchased  them.  "  They  made  me  get  'em 
when  we  were  in  Paris,"  he  said,  "  and  they  cost 
a  lot  of  monej^,  and  a  heap  more  before  I  got  'em 
through  the  Custom-house."  He  mentioned  the 
names  of  the  artists  who  had  painted  them,  and 
asked  Carstairs  if  he  had  ever  heard  of  them,  and 
Carstairs  said  yes,  that  he  knew  of  them  all,  and 
had  studied  under  some  of  them. 

"  They're  purty  high  up,  I  guess,"  suggested  the 
driver,  tentatively. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Carstairs  answered,  lending  himself 
to  the  other's  point  of  view,  "you  needn't  be 
afraid  of  ever  losing  on  your  investment.  Those 
pictures  will  be  worth  more  every  year." 

This  seemed  to  strike  the  older  man  as  a  very 
sensible  way  to  take  his  gallery,  and  he  said,  when 
they  had  reached  the  studio,  that  he  would  like 


148  A   PATEON    OF   AET 

to  see  more  of  Mr.  Carstairs  and  to  look  at  his 
pictures.  His  name,  he  said,  was  Cole.  Carstairs 
smilingly  asked  him  if  he  was  any  relation  to  the 
railroad  king,  of  whom  the  papers  spoke  as  King 
Cole,  and  was  somewhat  embarrassed  when  the  old 
gentleman  replied,  gravely,  that  he  was  that  King 
Cole  himself.  Carstairs  had  a  humorous  desire  to 
imprison  him  in  his  studio  and  keep  him  for  ran- 
som. Some  one  held  the  horse,  and  the  two  men 
went  up  to  the  sixth  floor  and  into  Carstairs's 
studio,  where  they  discovered  pretty  Mrs.  Car- 
stairs in  the  act  of  sewing  a  new  collar-band  on 
one  of  her  husband's  old  shirts.  She  went  on  at  this 
while  the  railroad  king,  who  seemed  a  \ery  simple, 
kindly  old  gentleman,  wandered  around  the  studio 
and  turned  over  the  pictures,  but  made  no  com- 
ment. It  had  been  -a  very  cold  drive,  and  Carstairs 
felt  chilled,  so  he  took  the  hot  water  his  wife  had 
for  her  tea  and  some  Scotch  whiskey  and  a  bit  of 
lemon,  and  filled  a  glass  with  it  for  his  guest  and 
for  himself.  Mrs.  Carstairs  rose  and  put  some 
sugar  in  King  Cole's  glass  and  stirred  it  for  him, 
and  tasted  it  out  of  the  spoon  and  coughed,  which 
made  the  old  gentleman  laugh.  Then  he  lighted 
a  cigar,  and  sat  back  in  a  big  arm-chair  and  asked 
many  questions,  until,  before  they  knew  it,  the 
young  people  had  told  him  a  great  deal  about 
themselves — almost  everything  except  that  they 
were  poor.  He  could  never  guess  that,  they 
thought,  because  the  studio  was  so  handsomely 
furnished  and  in  such  a  proper  neighborhood.    It 


A   PATEON    OF   ART  149' 

was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  quite  dark,  when 
their  guest  departed,  without  having  made  any 
comment  on  the  paintings  he  had  seen,  and  cer- 
tainly without  expressing  any  desire  to  purchase 
one. 

Mrs.  Carstairs  said,  when  her  husband  told  her 
who  their  guest  had  been,  that  they  ought  to  have 
held  a  pistol  to  his  head  and  made  him  make  out 
a  few  checks  for  them  while  they  had  him  about. 
"  Billionaires  don't  drop  in  like  that  every  day," 
said  she.  "  I  really  don't  think  we  appreciated  our 
opportunity." 

They  were  very  much  surprised  a  few  days  later 
when  the  railroad  king  rang  at  the  door,  and 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  come  in  and  get  warm, 
and  to  have  another  glass  of  hot  Scotch.  He  did 
this  very  often,  and  they  got  to  like  him  very 
much.  He  said  he  did  not  care  for  his  club,  and 
his  room  at  home  was  too  strongly  suggestive  of 
the  shop,  on  account  of  the  big  things  he  had 
thought  over  there,  but  that  their  studio  was  so 
bright  and  warm;  and  they  reminded  him,  he  said, 
of  the  days  when  he  was  first  married,  before  he 
was  rich.  They  tried  to  imagine  what  he  was  like 
when  he  was  first  married,  and  failed  utterly.  Mrs. 
Carstairs  was  quite  sure  he  was  not  at  all  like  her 
husband. 

*f*  "!•  tST  •!*  Tr» 

There  was  a  youth  who  came  to  call  on  the 
Misses  Cole,  who  had  a  great  deal  of  money,  and 
who  was  a  dilettante  in  art.     He  had  had  a  studio 


150  A   PATKON   OF   ART 

in  Paris,  where  he  had  spent  the  last  two  years, 
and  he  wanted  one,  so  he  said  at  dinner  one  day, 
in  New  York. 

Old  Mr.  Cole  was  seated  but  one  place  away 
from  him,  and  was  wondering  when  the  courses 
would  stop  and  he  could  get  upstairs.  He  did 
not  care  for  the  dinners  his  wife  gave,  but  she 
always  made  him  come  to  them.  He  never  could 
remember  whether  the  roast  came  before  or  after 
the  bird,  and  he  was  trying  to  guess  how  much 
longer  it  would  be  before  he  would  be  allowed 
to  go,  when  he  overheard  the  young  man  at  his 
daughter's  side  speaking. 

"The  only  studio  in  the  building  that  I  would 
care  to  have,"  said  the  young  man,  "  is  occupied 
at  present.  A  young  fellow  named  Carstairs  has 
it,  but  he  is  going  to  give  it  up  next  week,  when  I 
will  move  in.  He  has  not  been  successful  in  get- 
ting rid  of  his  pictures,  and  he  and  his  wife  are 
going  back  to  Vermont  to  live.  I  feel  rather  sorry 
for  the  chap,  for  he  is  really  very  clever  and  only 
needs  a  start.  It  is  almost  impossible  for  a  young 
artist  to  get  on  here,  I  imagine,  unless  he  knows 
people,  or  unless  some  one  who  is  known  buys  his 
work." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Cole,  politely.  "  Didn't  you 
say  you  met  the  Whelen  girls  before  you  left 
Paris  ?  Were  they  really  such  a  success  at  Hom- 
burg?" 

Mr.  Cole  did  not  eat  any  more  dinner,  but  sat 
thoughtfully  until  he  was  allowed  to  go.     Then 


A   PATKON    OF   ART  151 

he  went  out  into  the  hall,  and  put  on  his  overcoat 
and  hat. 

The  Carstairses  were  dismantling  the  studio. 
They  had  been  at  it  all  day,  and  they  were  very 
tired.  It  seemed  so  much  harder  work  to  take 
the  things  down  and  pack  them  away  than  it  did 
to  unpack  them  and  put  them  up  in  appropriate 
corners  and  where  they  would  show  to  the  best 
advantage. 

The  studio  looked  very  bare  indeed,  for  the 
rugs  and  altar  cloths  and  old  curtains  had  been 
stripped  from  the  walls,  and  the  pictures  and  arms 
and  plaques  lay  scattered  all  over  the  floor.  It 
was  only  a  week  before  Christmas,  and  it  seemed  a 
most  inappropriate  time  to  evict  one's  self.  "  And 
it's  hardest,"  said  Carstairs,  as  he  rolled  up  a  great 
Daghestan  rug  and  sat  on  it,  "to  go  back  and 
own  up  that  you're  a  failure." 

"  A  what !"  cried  young  Mrs.  Carstairs,  indig- 
nantly. "  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ?  You're 
not  a  failure.  It's  the  New-Yorkers  who  don't 
know  what's  good  when  it's  shown  them.  They'll 
buy  all  those  nasty  French  pictures  because  they're 
expensive  and  showy,  and  they  can't  understand 
what's  true  and  good.  They're  not  educated  up 
to  it,  and  they  won't  be  for  fifty  years  yet." 

"  Fifty  years  is  a  long  time  to  wait,"  said  her 
husband,  resignedly,  "but  if  necessary  we  can 
give  them  that  much  time.  And  we  were  to  have 
gone  abroad,  and  taken  dinner  at  Bignon's,  and 
had  a  studio  in  Montmartre." 


152  A   PATRON    OF   ART. 

"  Well,  you  needn't  talk  about  that  just  now," 
said  Mrs.  Carstairs,  as  she  shook  out  an  old  shawl. 
"  It's  not  cheerful." 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  rail- 
road king  walked  in,  covered  with  snow.  "  Good- 
ness me !"  exclaimed  King  Cole,  "  what  are  you 
doing?" 

They  told  him  they  were  going  back  to  Ver- 
mont to  spend  Christmas  and  the  rest  of  the 
winter. 

"You  might  have  let  me  know  you  were  go- 
ing," said  the  king.  "  I  had  something  most  im- 
portant to  say  to  you,  and  you  almost  gave  me 
the  slip." 

He  seated  himself  very  comfortably  and  light- 
ed a  fat,  black  cigar,  which  he  chewed  as  he 
smoked.  "You  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  was 
brought  up  in  Connecticut.  I  own  the  old  home- 
stead there  still,  and  a  tenant  of  mine  lives  in  it. 
I've  got  a  place  in  London,  or,  I  mean,  my  wife 
has,  and  one  in  Scotland,  and  one  in  Brittany,  a 
chateau,  and  one  in — well,  I've  a  good  many  here 
and  there.  I  keep  'em  closed  till  I  want  'em.  I've 
never  been  to  the  shooting-place  in  Scotland — my 
sons  go  there — nor  to  the  London  house,  but  I 
have  to  the  French  place,  and  I  like  it  next  best 
to  only  one  other  place  on  earth.  Because  it's 
among  big  trees  and  on  a  cliff,  where  you  can  see 
the  ships  all  day,  and  the  girls  in  colored  petti- 
coats catching  those  little  fish  you  eat  with  brown 
bread.     I  go  there  in  the  summer  and  sit  on  the 


A   PATBON   OF   ART  153 

cliff,  and  smoke  and  feel  just  as  good  as  though 
I  owned  the  whole  coast  and  all  the  sea  in  sight. 
I  bought  a  number  of  pictures  of  Brittany,  and 
the  girls  had  the  place  photographed  by  a  fellow 
from  Paris,  with  the  traps  in  the  front  yard,  and 
themselves  and  their  friends  on  the  front  terrace 
in  groups.  But  it  never  seemed  to  me  to  be  just 
what  I  remembered  of  the  place.  And  so  what 
I  want  to  ask  is,  if  you'll  go  up  to  my  old  place 
in  Connecticut  and  paint  me  a  picture  of  it  as  I 
used  to  know  it  when  I  was  a  boy,  so  that  I  can 
have  it  by  me  in  my  room.  A  picture  with  the 
cow-path  leading  up  from  the  pool  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  and  the  stone  walls,  and  the  corn  piled 
on  the  fields,  and  the  pumpkins  lying  around,  and 
the  sun  setting  behind  the  house.  Paint  it  on  one 
of  these  cold,  snappy  afternoons,  when  your  blood 
tingles  and  you  feel  good  that  you're  alive.  And 
when  you  get  through  with  that,  Pd  like  you  to 
paint  me  a  picture  to  match  it  of  the  chateau,  and 
as  many  little  sketches  of  the  fishermen,  and  the 
girls  with  the  big  white  hats  and  bare  legs  and 
red  petticoats,  as  you  choose.  You  can  live  in 
the  homestead  till  that  picture's  done,  and  then 
you  can  cross  over  and  live  in  the  chateau. 

"  I  don't  see  that  there  is  anything  wrong  in 
painting  a  picture  to  order,  is  there  ?  You  paint 
a  portrait  to  order,  why  shouldn't  you  paint  an 
old  house,  or  a  beautiful  castle  on  a  cliff,  with  the 
sea  beyond  it  ?  If  you  wish,  Pll  close  with  you 
now  and  call  it  a  bargain." 


154  A  PATKON  OF  AKT 

Mrs.  Carstairs  had  been  standing  all  this  time 
with  an  unframed  picture  in  one  hand,  and  a  dust 
brush  in  the  other,  and  her  husband  had  been 
sitting  on  the  rolled-up  Turkish  rug  and  trying 
not  to  look  at  her. 

"  I'd  like  to  do  it  very  well,"  he  said,  simply. 

*'  Well,  that's  good,"  replied  the  railroad  king, 
heartily.  "  You'll  need  a  retaining  fee,  I  suppose, 
like  lawyers  do;  and  you  put  your  best  work  on 
the  two  pictures  and  remember  what  they  mean 
to  wze,  and  put  the  spirit  of  home  into  them.  It's 
my  home  you're  painting,  do  you  understand  ?  I 
think  you  do.  That's  why  I  asked  you  instead 
of  asking  any  of  the  others.  Now,  you  know 
how  I  feel  about  it,  and  you  put  the  fe^eling  into 
the  picture;  and  as  to  the  price,  you  ask  whatever 
you  please,  and  you  live  at  my  houses  and  at  my 
expense  until  the  work  is  done.  If  I  don't  see 
you  again,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  a  check  down  on 
the  table  among  the  brushes  and  paint  tubes  and 
cigars,  "I  will  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas." 
Then  he  hurried  out  and  banged  the  door  behind 
him  and  escaped  their  thanks,  and  left  them  alone 
together. 

The  pictures  of  Breton  life  and  landscape  were 
exhibited  a  year  later  in  Paris,  and  in  the  winter 
in  IsTew  York,  and,  as  they  bore  the  significant  nu- 
merals of  the  Salon  on  the  frame,  they  were  im- 
mediately appreciated,  and  many  people  asked 
the  price.  But  the  attendant  said  they  were  al- 
ready sold  to  Mr.  Cole,  the  railroad  king,  who 


r 


A   PATRON    OP   ART  155 

had  purchased  also  the  great  artistic  success  of 
the  exhibition — an  old  farm-house  with  a  wintry 
landscape,  and  the  word  "  Home "  printed  be- 
neath it. 


ANDY  M'GEE'S  CHOEUS  GIEL 


AKDY  M'GEE'S  CHOKUS  GIRL 


ANDY  M*GEE  was  a  fireman,  and  was  de- 
tailed every  evening  to  theatre  duty  at  the 
Grand  Opera  House,  where  the  Ada  Howard 
Burlesque  and  Comic  Opera  Company  was  play- 
ing "  Pocahontas."  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
stand  in  the  first  entrance  and  watch  the  border 
lights  and  see  that  the  stand  lights  in  the  wings 
did  not  set  fire  to  the  canvas.  He  was  a  quiet, 
shy  young  man,  very  strong-looking  and  with  a 
handsome  boyish  face.  Miss  Agnes  Carroll  was 
the  third  girl  from  the  right  in  the  first  semi- 
circle of  amazons,  and  very  beautiful.  By  rights 
she  should  have  been  on  the  end,  but  she  was  so 
proud  and  haughty  that  she  would  smile  but  'sel- 
dom, and  never  at  the  men  in  front.  Brady,  the 
stage  manager,  who  was  also  the  second  come- 
dian, said  that  a  girl  on  the  end  should  at  least 
look  as  though  she  were  enjoying  herself,  and 
though  he  did  not  expect  her  to  talk  across  the 
footlights,  she  might  at  least  look  over  them 
once  in  a  while,  just  to  show  there  was  no  ill  feel- 
ing. Miss  Carroll  did  not  agree  with  him  in 
this,  and  so  she  was  relegated  to  the  third  place, 


160  ANDY   m'gEE's    chorus   GIRL 

and  another  girl  who  was  more  interested  in  the 
audience  and  less  in  the  play  took  her  position. 
When  Miss  Carroll  was  not  on  the  stage  she  used 
to  sit  on  the  carpeted  steps  of  the  throne,  which 
were  not  in  use  after  the  opening  scene,  and 
read  novels  by  the  Duchess,  or  knit  on  a  pair  of 
blue  woollen  wristlets,  which  she  kept  wrapped 
up  in  a  towel  and  gave  to  the  w^ardrobe  woman 
to  hold  when  she  went  on.  One  night  there  was 
a  quicker  call  than  usual,  owing  to  Ada  Howard's 
failing  to  get  her  usual  encore  for  her  waltz  song, 
and  Brady  hurried  them.  The  wardrobe  woman 
was  not  in  sight,  so  Agnes  handed  her  novel  and 
her  knitting  to  M'Gee  and  said  :  "  Will  you  hold 
these  for  me  until  I  come  off?"  She  looked  at 
him  for  the  first  time  as  she  handed  him  the 
things,  and  he  felt,  as  he  had  felt  several  times 
before,  that  her  beauty  was  of  a  distinctly  dis- 
turbing quality.  There  was  something  so  shy 
about  her  face  when  she  was  not  on  the  stage, 
and  something  so  kindly,  that  he  stood  holding  the 
pieces  of  blue  wool,  still  warm  from  her  hands, 
without  moving  from  the  position  he  had  held 
when  she  gave  them  to  him.  When  she  came 
off  he  gave  them  back  to  her  and  touched  the 
visor  of  his  cap  as  she  thanked  him.  One  of 
the  other  beautiful  amazons  laughed  and  whis- 
pered, "Agnes  has  a  mash  on  the  fire  laddie," 
which  made  the  retiring  Mr.  M'Gee  turn  very 
red.  He  did  not  dare  to  look  and  see  what  effect 
it  had  on  Miss  Carroll.     But  the  next  evening  he 


ANDY   m'GEE's    CHOEUS   GIRL  161 

took  off  bis  hat  to  her,  and  she  said  "  Good-even- 
ing," quite  boldly.  After  that  he  watched  her  a 
great  deal.  He  thought  he  did  it  in  such  a  way 
that  she  did  not  see  him,  but  that  was  only  be- 
cause he  was  a  man  ;  for  the  other  women  notrced 
it  at  once,  and  made  humorous  comments  on  it 
when  they  were  in  the  dressing-rooms. 

Old  man  Sanders,  who  had  been  in  the  chorus 
of  different  comic-opera  companies  since  he  was 
twenty  years  old,  and  who  was  something  of  a 
pessimist,  used  to  take  great  pleasure  in  abus- 
ing the  other  members  of  the  company  to  Andy 
M'Gee,  and  in  telling  anecdotes  concerning  them 
which  were  extremely  detrimental  to  their  charac- 
ters. He  could  not  find  anything  good  to  say  of 
any  of  them,  and  M'Gee  began  to  believe  that  the 
stage  was  a  very  terrible  place  indeed.  He  was 
more  sorry  for  this,  and  he  could  not  at  first 
understand  why,  until  he  discovered  that  he  was 
very  much  interested  in  Miss  Agnes  Carroll,  and 
her  character  was  to  him  a  thing  of  great  and  poig- 
nant importance.  He  often  wished  to  ask  old 
Sanders  about  her,  but  he  was  afraid  to  do  so, 
partly  because  he  thought  he  ought  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  she  was  a  good  girl,  and  partly  be- 
cause he  was  afraid  Sanders  would  tell  him  she 
was  not.  But  one  night  as  she  passed  them,  as 
proud  and  haughty  looking  as  ever,  old  Sanders 
grunted  scornfully,  and  M'Gee  felt  that  he  was 
growing  very  red. 

"Now, there  is  a  girl," said  the  old  man,  "who 
11 


162  ANDY    M'GEES    CHOEUS    GIEL 

ought  to  be  out  of  this  business.  She's  too  good 
for  it,  and  she'll  never  get  on  in  it.  Not  that  she 
couldn't  keep  straight  and  get  on,  but  because 
she  is  too  little  interested  in  it,  and  shows  no 
heart  in  the  little  she  has  to  do.  She  can  sing  a 
little  bit,  but  she  can't  do  the  steps." 

"Then  why  does  she  stay  in  it?"  said  Andy 
M'Gee. 

"  Well,  they  tell  me  she's  got  a  brother  to  sup- 
port. He's  too  young  or  too  lazy  to  work,  or  a 
cripple  or  something.  She  tried  giving  singing 
lessons,  but  she  couldn't  get  any  pupils,  and  now 
she  supports  herself  and  her  brother  with  this." 

Andy  M'Gee  felt  a  great  load  lifted  off  his 
mind.  He  became  more  and  more  interested  in 
Miss  Agnes  Carroll,  and  he  began  to  think  up 
little  speeches  to  make  to  her,  which  w^ere  intend- 
ed to  show  how  great  his  respect  for  her  Avas,  and 
what  an  agreeable  young  person  he  might  be  if 
you  only  grew  to  know  him.  But  she  never 
grew  to  know  him.  She  always  answered  him 
very  quietly  and  very  kindly,  but  never  with  any 
show  of  friendliness  or  with  any  approach  to  it, 
and  he  felt  that  he  would  never  know  her  any 
better  than  he  did  on  the  first  night  she  spoke  to 
him.  But  three  or  four  times  he  found  her 
watching  him,  and  he  took  heart  at  this  and  from 
something  he  believed  he  saw  in  her  manner  and 
in  the  very  reticence  she  showed.  He  counted 
up  how  much  of  his  pay  he  had  saved,  and  con- 
cluded that  with  it   and  with  what  he  received 


ANDY    m'GEE'S    chorus    GIRL  163 

monthly  he  could  very  well  afford  to  marry. 
When  he  decided  on  this  he  became  more  devot- 
ed to  her,  and  even  the  girls  stopped  laughing 
about  it  now.  They  saw  it  was  growing  very 
serious  indeed. 

One  afternoon  there  was  a  great  fire,  and  he 
and  three  others  fell  from  the  roof  and  were 
burned  'a  bit,  and  the  boy  ambulance  surgeon  lost 
his  head  and  said  they  were  seriously  injured, 
which  fact  got  into  the  afternoon  papers,  and 
when  Andy  turned  up  as  usual  at  the  Opera 
House  there  was  great  surprise  and  much  rejoic- 
ing. And  the  next  day  one  of  the  wounded  fire- 
men who  had  had  to  remain  in  the  hospital  over- 
night told  Andy  that  a  most  beautiful  lady  had 
come  there  and  asked  to  see  him  and  had  then 
said  :  "  This  is  not  the  man  ;  the  papers  said 
Mr.  M'Gee  was  hurt."  She  had  refused  to  tell  her 
name,  but  had  gone  away  greatly  relieved. 

Andy  dared  to  think  that  this  had  been  Ag- 
nes Carroll,  and  that  night  he  tried  to  see  her 
to  speak  to  her,  but  she  avoided  him  and  went 
at  once  to  her  dressing-room  whenever  she  was 
off  the  stage.  But  Andy  was  determined  to 
speak  to  her,  and  waited  for  her  at  the  stage 
door,  instead  of  going  back  at  once  to  the  engine- 
house  to  make  out  his  report,  which  was  entirely 
wrong,  and  which  cost  him  a  day's  pay.  It  was 
Tuesday  night,  and  salaries  had  just  been  given 
all  around,  and  the  men  and  girls  left  the  stage 
door  with  the  envelopes  in  their  hands  and  dis- 


164  ANDY   M^GEE'S   chorus   GIRL 

cussing  the  different  restaurants  at  which  they 
would  fitly  celebrate  the  weekly  walk  of  the 
ghost.  Agnes  came  out  among  the  last,  veiled, 
and  moving  quickly  through  the  crowd  of  half- 
grown  boys,  and  men  about  town,  and  poor  rela- 
tions who  lay  in  wait  and  hovered  around  the 
lamp  over  the  stage  door  like  moths  about  a  can- 
dle. Andy  stepped  forward  quickly  to  follow  her, 
but  before  he  could  reach  her  side  a  man  stepped 
up  to  her,  and  she  stopped  and  spoke  to  him  in  a 
low  tone  and  retreated  as  she  spoke.  Andy  heard 
him,  with  a  sharp,  jealous  doubt  in  his  heart,  and 
stood  still.  Then  the  man  reached  for  the  enve- 
lope in  the  girl's  hand  and  said,  "  Give  it  to  me, 
do  you  hear?"  and  she  drew  back  and  started  to 
run,  but  he  seized  her  arm.  Then  Andy  jumped 
at  him  and  knocked  him  down,  and  picked  him  up 
again  by  the  collar  and  beat  him  over  the  head. 
"Stop  !"  the  girl  cried.     "  Stop  !" 

"  Stop  like—,"  said  Andy. 

"Stop  !  do  you  hear?"  cried  the  woman  again 
"  He  has  a  right  to  the  money.  He  is  my  hus- 
band." 

Andy  asked  to  be  taken  off  theatre  duty,  and 
the  captain  did  what  he  asked.  After  that  he 
grew  very  morose  and  unhappy,  and  was  as  cross 
and  disagreeable  as  he  could  be ;  so  that  the  other 
men  said  they  would  like  to  thrash  him  just  once. 
But  when  there  was  a  fire  he  acted  like  another 
man,  and  was  so  reckless  that  the  captain,  mistak- 
ing foolhardincss  for  bravery,  handed  in  his  name 


ANDY   M*GEE's   chorus   GIRL  165 

for  promotion,  and  as  his  political  backing  was 
very  strong,  he  was  given  the  white  helmet  and 
became  foreman  of  another  engine-house.  But 
he  did  not  seem  to  enjoy  life  any  the  more,  and 
he  was  most  unpopular.  The  winter  passed  away 
and  the  summer  came,  and  one  day  on  Fifth  Ave- 
nue Andy  met  old  man  Sanders,  whom  he  tried 
to  avoid,  because  the  recollections  he  brought  up 
were  bitter  ones  ;  but  Sanders  buttonholed  him 
and  told  him  he  had  been  reading  about  his  get- 
ting the  Bennett  medal,  and  insisted  on  his  tak- 
ing a  drink  with  him. 

"And,  by  the  way,"  said  Sanders,  just  as  Andy 
thought  he  had  finally  succeeded  in  shaking  him 
off,  "do  you  remember  Agnes  Carroll?  It  seems 
she  was  married  to  a  drunken,  good-for-nothing 
lout,  who  beat  her.  "Well,  he  took  a  glass  too 
much  one  night,  and  walked  off  a  ferry-boat  into 
the  East  River.  Drink  is  a  terrible  thing,  isn't 
it  ?    They  say  the  paddle-wheels  knocked  the — " 

"  And  his  wife  ?"  gasped  Andy. 

"  She's  with  us  yet,"  said  Sanderg.  *'  We're  at 
the  Bijou  this  week.    Come  in  and  see  the  piece." 

Brady,  the  stage  manager,  waved  a  letter  at 
the  acting  manager. 

"  Letter  from  Carroll,"  he  said.  "  Sends  in  her 
notice.  Going  to  leave  the  stage,  she  says  ;  go- 
ing to  get  married  again.  She  was  a  good  girl," 
he  added  with  a  sigh,  "and  she  sang  well  enough, 
but  she  couldn't  do  the  dance  steps  a  little  bit." 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVER 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIYER 


"TTEFTY"  BURKE  was  one  of  the  best 
-■— ■-  swimmers  in  the  East  River.  There  was 
no  regular  way  open  for  him  to  prove  this,  as  the 
gentlemen  of  the  Harlem  boat-clubs,  under  whose 
auspices  the  annual  races  were  given,  called  him 
a  professional,  and  would  not  swim  against  him. 
"They  won't  keep  company  with  me  on  land," 
Hefty  complained,  bitterly,  "  and  they  can't  keep 
company  with  me  in  the  water ;  so  I  lose  both 
ways."  Young  Burke  held  these  gentlemen  of 
the  rowing  clubs  in  great  contempt,  and  their 
outriggers  and  low-necked  and  picturesque  row- 
ing clothes  as  well.  They  were  fond  of  lying 
out  of  the  current,  with  the  oars  pulled  across  at 
their  backs  for  support,  smoking  and  commenting 
audibly  upon  the  other  oarsmen  who  passed  them 
by  perspiring  uncomfortably,  and  conscious  that 
they  were  being  criticised.  Hefty  said  that  these 
amateur  oarsmen  and  swimmers  were  only  pretty 
boys,  and  that  he  could  give  them  two  hundred 
yards  start  in  a  mile  of  rough  or  smooth  water 
and  pass  them  as  easily  as  a  tug  passes  a  lighter. 
He  was  quite  right  in  this  latter  boast ;  but,  as 


170  A   LEANDEE    OF   THE    EAST   EIVER 

they  would  call  him  a  professional  and  would  not 
swim  against  him,  there  was  no  way  for  him  to 
prove  it.  His  idea  of  a  race  and  their  idea  of  a 
race  differed.  They  had  a  committee  to  select 
prizes  and  open  a  book  for  entries,  and  when  the 
day  of  the  races  came  they  had  a  judges'  boat 
with  gay  bunting  all  over  it,  and  a  badly  fright- 
ened referee  and  a  host  of  reporters,  and  police 
boats  to  keep  order.  But  when  Hefty  swam,  his 
two  backers,  who  had  challenged  some  other 
young  man  through  a  sporting  paper,  rowed  in  a 
boat  behind  him  and  yelled  and  swore  directions, 
advice,  warnings,  and  encouragement  at  him,  and 
in  their  excitement  drank  all  of  the  whiskey  that 
had  been  intended  for  him.  And  the  other  young 
man's  backers,  who  had  put  up  ten  dollars  on 
him,  and  a  tugboat  filled  with  other  rough  young 
men,  kegs  of  beer,  and  three  Italians  with  two 
fiddles  and  one  harp,  followed  close  in  the  wake 
of  the  swimmers.  It  w^as  most  exciting,  and 
though  Hefty  never  had  any  prizes  to  show  for 
it,  he  always  came  in  first,  and  so  won  a  great  deal 
of  local  reputation.  He  also  gained  renown  as  a 
life-saver  ;  for  if  it  had  not  been  for  him  many  a 
venturesome  lad  would  have  ended  his  young  life 
in  the  waters  of  the  East  River. 

For  this  he  received  ornate  and  very  thin  gold 
medals,  with  very  little  gold  spread  over  a  large 
extent  of  medal,  from  grateful  parents  and  admir- 
ing friends.  These  were  real  medals,  and  given  to 
him,  and  not  paid  for  by  himself  as  were  "Rags" 


A  LEANDER   OP   THE   EAST   KIVER  171 

Raegan's,  who  always  bought  himself  a  medal 
whenever  he  assaulted  a  reputable  citizen  and  the 
case  was  up  before  the  Court  of  General  Sessions. 
It  was  the  habit  of  Mr.  Raegan's  friends  to  fall 
overboard  for  him  whenever  he  was  in  difficulty 
of  this  sort,  and  allow  themselves  to  be  saved,  and 
to  present  Raegan  with  the  medal  he  had  pre- 
pared ;  and  this  act  of  heroism  would  get  into  the 
papers,  and  Raegan's  lawyer  would  make  the 
most  of  it  before  the  judges.  Rags  had  been 
Hefty's  foremost  rival  among  the  swimmers  of 
the  East  Side,  but  since  the  retirement  of  the  for- 
mer into  reputable  and  private  life  Hefty  was  the 
acknowledged  champion  of  the  river  front. 

Hefty  was  not  at  all  a  bad  young  man — that  is, 
he  did  not  expect  his  people  to  support  him — and 
he  worked  occasionally,  especially  about  election 
time,  and  what  he  made  in  bets  and  in  backing 
himself  to  swim  supplied  him  with  small  change. 
Then  he  fell  in  love  with  Miss  Casey,  and  the 
trouble  and  happiness  of  his  life  came  to  him 
hand  and  hand  together  ;  and  as  this  human  feel- 
ing does  away  with  class  distinctions,  I  need  not 
feel  I  must  apologize  for  him  any  longer,  but  just 
tell  his  story. 

He  met  her  at  the  Hon.  P.  C.  McGovern's 
Fourth  Ward  Association's  excursion  and  picnic, 
at  which  he  was  one  of  the  twenty-five  vice-presi- 
dents. On  this  occasion  Hefty  had  jumped  over- 
board after  one  of  the  Ra^:  Ganc:  whom  the  mem- 
bers  of  the  Half-Hose  Social  Club  had,  in  a  spirit 


172  A    LEANDEE    OF   THE    EAST   KIVER 

of  merriment,  dropped  over  the  side  of  the  boat. 
This  action  and  the  subsequent  rescue  and  ensu- 
ing intoxication  of  the  half-drowned  member  of 
the  Rag  Gang  had  filled  Miss  Casey's  heart  with 
admiration,  and  she  told  Hefty  he  was  a  good  one 
and  ought  to  be  proud  of  himself. 

On  the  following  Sunday  he  walked  out  Ave- 
nue A  to  Tompkins  Square  with  Mary,  and  he 
also  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  every  day  on  her 
stoop  when  he  was  not  working,  for  he  was  work- 
ing now  and  making  ten  dollars  a  week  as  an  as- 
sistant to  an  ice-driver.  They  had  promised  to 
give  him  fifteen  dollars  a  w^eek  and  a  seat  on  the 
box  if  he  proved  steady.  He  had  even  dreamed 
of  wedding  Mary  in  the  spring.  But  Casey  was 
a  particularly  objectionable  man  for  a  father-in- 
law,  and  his  objections  to  Hefty  were  equally 
strong.  He  honestly  thought  the  young  man  no 
fit  match  for  his  daughter,  and  would  only  prom- 
ise to  allow  him  to  "  keep  company  "  wdth  Mary 
on  the  condition  of  his  living  steadily. 

So  it  became  Hefty 's  duty  to  behave  himself. 
He  found  this  a  little  hard  to  do  at  first,  but  he 
confessed  that  it  grew  easier  as  he  saw  more  of 
Miss  Casey.  He  attributed  his  reform  to  her 
entirely.  She  had  made  the  semi-political,  semi- 
social  organizations  to  which  he  belonged  appear 
stupid,  and  especially  so  when  he  lost  his  money 
playing  poker  in  the  club-room  (for  the  club  had 
only  one  room),  when  he  might  have  put  it  away 
for  her.      He  liked  to  talk  with  her  about  the 


A   LEANDER    OF   THE    EAST   RIVER  173 

neighbors  in  the  tenement,  and  his  chance  of  po- 
litical advancement  to  the  position  of  a  watchman 
at  the  Custom-house  Wharf,  and  hear  her  play 
*'  Mary  and  John  "  on  the  melodeon.  He  boasted 
that  she  could  make  it  sound  as  well  as  it  did  on 
the  barrel-organ. 

He  was  very  polite  to  her  father  and  very  much 
afraid  of  him,  for  he  was  a  most  particular  old 
man  from  the  North  of  Ireland,  and  objected  to 
Hefty  because  he  was  a  good  Catholic  and  fond 
of  street  fights.  He  also  asked  pertinently  how 
Hefty  expected  to  support  a  wife  by  swimming 
from  one  pier  to  another  on  the  chance  of  win- 
ning ten  dollars,  and  pointed  out  that  even  this 
precarious  means  of  livelihood  would  be  shut  off 
when  the  winter  came.  He  much  preferred  "  Pat- 
sy" Moffat  as  a  prospective  son-in-law,  because 
Moffat  was  one  of  the  proprietors  in  a  local  ex- 
press company  with  a  capital  stock  of  three 
wagons  and  two  horses.  Miss  Casey  herself,  so  it 
seemed  to  Hefty,  was  rather  fond  of  Moffat ;  but 
he  could  not  tell  for  whom  she  really  cared,  for 
she  was  very  shy,  and  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  speaking  a  word  of  encouragement  as  of  speak- 
ing with  unkindness. 

There  was  to  be  a  ball  at  the  Palace  Garden  on 
Wednesday  night,  and  Hefty  had  promised  to  call 
for  Mary  at  nine  o'clock.  She  told  him  to  be  on 
time,  and  threatened  to  go  with  her  old  love, 
Patsy  Moffat,  if  he  were  late. 

On  Monday  night  the  foreman  at  the  livery 


174  A   LEANDER    OF   THE    EAST    EIVER 

stable  of  the  ice  company  appointed  Hefty  a 
driver,  and,  as  his  wages  would  now  be  fifteen 
dollars  a  week,  he  concluded  to  ask  Mary  to  marry 
him  on  Wednesday  night  at  the  dance. 

He  was  very  much  elated  and  very  happy. 

His  fellow-workmen  heard  of  his  promotion  and 
insisted  on  his  standing  treat,  which  he  did  sev- 
eral times,  until  the  others  became  flippant  in 
their  remarks  and  careless  in  their  conduct.  In 
this  innocent  but  somewhat  noisy  state  they  start- 
ed home,  and  on  the  way  were  injudicious  enough 
to  say,  "  Ah  there !"  to  a  policeman  as  he  issued 
from  the  side  door  of  a  saloon.  The  policeman 
naturally  pounded  the  nearest  of  them  on  the 
head  with  his  club,  and  as  Hefty  happened  to  be 
tliat  one,  and  as  he  objected,  he  was  arrested.  He 
gave  a  false  name,  and  next  morning  pleaded  not 
guilty  to  the  charge  of  "assaulting  an  officer  and 
causing  a  crowd  to  collect." 

His  sentence  was  thirty  days  in  default  of  three 
hundred  dollars,  and  by  two  o'clock  he  was  on 
the  boat  to  the  Island,  and  by  three  he  had  dis- 
carded the  blue  shirt  and  red  suspenders  of  an 
iceman  for  the  gray  stiff  cloth  of  a  prisoner.  He 
took  the  whole  trouble  terribly  to  heart.  He  knew 
that  if  Old  Man  Casey,  as  he  called  him,  heard 
of  it  there  would  be  no  winning  his  daughter  with 
his  consent,  and  he  feared  that  the  girl  herself 
would  have  grave  doubts  concerning  him.  He 
was  especially  cast  down  when  he  thought  of  the 
dance  on  Wednesday  night,  and  of  how  she  would 


A   LEANDER   OF   THE    EAST   RIVER  175 

go  off  with  Patsy  Moffat.  And  what  made  it 
worse  was  the  thought  that  if  he  did  not  return 
he  would  lose  his  position  at  the  ice  company's 
stable,  and  then  marriage  with  Mary  would  be 
quite  impossible.  He  grieved  over  this  all  day, 
and  speculated  as  to  what  his  family  would  think 
of  him.  His  circle  of  friends  was  so  well  known 
to  other  mutual  friends  that  he  did  not  dare  to 
ask  any  of  them  to  bail  him  out,  for  this  would 
have  certainly  come  to  Casey's  ears. 

He  could  do  nothing  but  wait.  And  yet  thirty 
days  was  a  significant  number  to  his  friends,  and 
an  absence  of  that  duration  would  be  hard  to  ex- 
plain. On  Wednesday  morning,  two  days  after 
his  arrest,  he  was  put  to  work  with  a  gang  of 
twenty  men  breaking  stone  on  the  roadway  that 
leads  from  the  insane  quarters  to  the  penitentiary. 
It  was  a  warm,  sunny  day,  and  the  city,  lying 
just  across  the  narrow  channel,  never  looked  more 
beautiful.  It  seemed  near  enough  for  him  to 
reach  out  his  hand  and  touch  it.  And  the  private 
yachts  and  big  excursion-boats  that  passed,  bang- 
ing out  popular  airs  and  alive  with  bunting,  made 
Hefty  feel  very  bitter.  He  determined  that  when 
he  got  back  he  would  go  look  up  the  policeman 
who  had  assaulted  him  and  break  his  head  with  a 
brick  in  a  stocking.  This  plan  cheered  him  some- 
what, until  he  thought  again  of  Mary  Casey  at 
the  dance  that  night  with  Patsy  Moffat,  and  this 
excited  him  so  that  he  determined  madly  to  break 
away  and  escape.     His  first  impulse  was  to  drop 


1*76  A   LEANDER   OF  THE    EAST   KIVER 

his  crowbar  and  jump  into  the  river  on  the  in- 
stant, but  his  cooler  judgment  decided  him  to  wait. 
At  the  northern  end  of  the  Island  the  grass  runs 
high,  and  there  are  no  houses  of  any  sort  upon  it. 
It  reaches  out  into  a  rocky  point,  where  it  touches 
the  still  terribly  swift  eddies  of  Hell  Gate,  and 
its  sharp  front  divides  the  water  and  directs  it 
towards  Astoria  on  the  east  and  the  city  on  the 
west.  Hefty  determined  to  walk  off  from  the 
gang  of  workmen  until  he  could  drop  into  this 
grass  and  to  lie  there  until  night.  This  would  be 
easy,  as  there  was  only  one  man  to  watch  them, 
for  they  were  all  there  for  only  ten  days  or  one 
month,  and  the  idea  that  they  should  try  to  escape 
was  hardly  considered.  So  Hefty  edged  off  far- 
ther from  the  gang,  and  then,  while  the  guard 
was  busy  lighting  his  pipe,  dropped  into  the  long 
grass  and  lay  there  quietly,  after  first  ridding  him- 
self of  his  shoes  and  jacket.  At  six  o'clock  a  bell 
tolled  and  the  guard  marched  away,  with  his  gang 
shambling  after  him.  Hefty  guessed  they  would 
not  miss  him  until  they  came  to  count  heads  at 
supper-time ;  but  even  now  it  was  already  dark, 
and  lights  were  showing  on  the  opposite  bank. 
He  had  selected  the  place  he  meant  to  swim  for — 
a  green  bank  below  a  row  of  new  tenements,  a 
place  where  a  few  bushes  still  stood,  and  where 
the  boys  of  Harlem  hid  their  clothes  when  they 
went  in  swimming. 

At  half-past  seven  it  was  quite  dark,  so  dark, 


A   LEANDER    OF   THE    EAST   RIVER  ill 

in  fact,  that  the  three  lanterns  which  came  tossing 
towards  him  told  Hefty  that  his  absence  had  been 
discovered.  He  rose  quickly  and  stepped  cau- 
tiously, instead  of  diving,  into  the  river,  for  he 
was  fearful  of  hidden  rocks.  The  current  was 
much  stronger  than  he  had  imagined,  and  he  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  with  the  water  pulling  at  his 
knees,  but  only  for  a  moment  ;  for  the  men  were 
hunting  for  him  in  the  grass. 

He  drew  the  gray  cotton  shirt  from  his  shoul- 
ders, and  threw  it  back  of  him  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  disgust,  and  of  relief  at  being  a  free  man 
again,  and  struck  his  broad,  bare  chest  and  the 
biceps  of  his  arms  with  a  little  gasp  of  pleasure 
in  their  perfect  strength,  and  then  bent  forward 
and  slid  into  the  river. 

The  current  from  the  opening  at  Hell  Gate 
caught  him  up  as  though  he  had  been  a  plank. 
It  tossed  him  and  twisted  him  and  sucked  him 
down.  He  beat  his  way  for  a  second  to  the  sur- 
face and  gasped  for  breath  and  was  drawn  down 
again,  striking  savagely  at  the  eddies  which  seemed 
to  twist  his  limbs  into  useless,  heavy  masses  of 
flesh  and  muscle.  Then  he  dived  down  and  down, 
seeking  a  possibly  less  rapid  current  at  the  muddy 
bottom  of  the  river  ;  but  the  current  drew  him  up 
again  until  he  reached  the  top,  just  in  time,  so  it 
seemed  to  him,  to  breathe  the  pure  air  before  his 
lungs  split  with  the  awful  pressure.  He  was 
gloriously  and  fiercely  excited  by  the  unexpected 
strength  of  his  opponent  and  the  probably  fatal 
12 


178  A  LEANDER   OF   THE   EAST   EIVER 

outcome  of  his  adventure.  He  slopped  struggling, 
that  he  might  gain  fresh  strength,  and  let  the  cur- 
rent bear  him  where  it  would,  until  he  saw  that  it 
was  carrying  him  swiftly  to  the  shore  and  to  the 
rocks  of  the  Island.  And  then  he  dived  again  and 
beat  his  way  along  the  bottom,  clutching  with  his 
hands  at  the  soft,  thick  mud,  and  rising  only  to 
gasp  for  breath  and  sink  again.  His  eyes  were 
smarting  hotly,  and  his  head  and  breast  ached 
with  pressure  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  in- 
side and  threatened  to  burst  its  way  out.  ,His 
arms  had  grown  like  lead  and  had  lost  their 
strength,  and  his  legs  were  swept  and  twisted 
away  from  his  control  and  were  numb  and  use- 
less. He  assured  himself  fiercely  that  he  could 
not  have  been  in  the  water  for  more  than  five 
minutes  at  the  longest,  and  reminded  himself  that 
he  had  often  before  lived  in  it  for  hours,  and  that 
this  power,  which  was  so  much  greater  than  his 
own,  could  not  outlast  him.  But  there  was  no 
sign  of  abatement  in  the  swift,  cruel  uncertainty 
of  its  movement,  and  it  bore  him  on  and  down  or 
up  as  it  pleased.  The  lights  on  the  shore  became 
indistinct,  and  he  finally  confused  the  two  shores, 
and  gave  up  hope  of  reaching  the  New  York  side, 
except  by  accident,  and  hoped  only  to  reach  some 
solid  land  alive.  He  did  not  go  over  all  of  his 
past  life,  but  the  vision  of  Mary  Casey  did  come 
to  him,  and  how  she  would  not  know  that  he  had 
been  innocent.  It  was  a  IHtle  thing  to  distress 
himself  about  at  such  a  time,  but  it  hurt  him  keen- 


A   LEANDER    OF   THE    EAST   EIVER  179 

ly.  And  then  the  lights  grew  blurred,  and  he  felt 
that  he  was  making  heavy  mechanical  strokes  that 
barely  kept  his  lips  above  the  water-line.  He  felt 
the  current  slacken  perceptibly,  but  he  was  too 
much  exhausted  to  take  advantage  of  it,  and 
drifted  forward  with  it,  splashing  feebly  like  a 
dog,  and  holding  his  head  back  with  a  desperate  ef- 
fort. A  huge,  black  shadow,  only  a  shade  blacker 
than  the  water  around  him,  loomed  up  suddenly 
on  his  right,  and  he  saw  a  man's  face  appear  in 
the  light  of  a  hatchway  and  disappear  again. 

"Help!"  he  cried,  "help  !"  but  his  voice  sound- 
ed far  away  and  barely  audible.  He  struck  out 
desperately  against  the  current,  and  turned  on  his 
back  and  tried  to  keep  himself  afloat  where  he 
was.  "  Help  !"  he  called  again,  feebly,  grudging 
the  strength  it  took  to  call  even  that.  "Help! 
Quick,  for  God's  sake  !  help  me !" 

Something  heavy,  black,  and  wet  struck  him 
sharply  in  the  face  and  fell  with  a  splash  on  the 
water  beside  him.  He  clutched  for  it  quickly, 
and  clasped  it  with  both  hands  and  felt  it  grow 
taut,  and  then  gave  up  thinking,  and  they  jDulled 
him  on  board. 

When  he  came  to  himself,  the  captain  of  the 
canal -boat  stooped  and  took  a  fold  of  the  gray 
trousers  between  his  thumb  and  finger.  Then  he 
raised  his  head  and  glanced  across  at  the  big 
black  Island,  where  lights  were  still  moving  about 
on  the  shore,  and  whistled  softly.  But  Hefty 
looked  at  him  so  beseechingly  that  he  arose  and 


180  A  LEANDER   OF   THE   EAST   RIVER 

came  back  with  a  pair  of  old  boots  and  a  suit  of 
blue  jeans. 

"  Will  you  send  these  back  to  me  to-morrow  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Sure,"  said  Hefty. 

"And  what'll  I  do  with  these?"  said  the  cap- 
tain, holding  up  the  gray  trousers. 

"  Anything  you  want,  except  to  wear  'em,"  said 
Mr.  Burke,  feebly,  with  a  grin. 

One  hour  later  Miss  Casey  was  standing  up  with 
Mr.  Patsy  Moffat  for  the  grand  march  of  the 
grand  ball  of  the  Jolly  Fellows'  Pleasure  Club  of 
the  Fourteenth  Ward,  held  at  the  Palace  Gar- 
den. The  band  was  just  starting  the  "Boulanger 
March,"  and  Mr.  Moffat  was  saying  wittily  that  it 
was  warm  enough  to  eat  ice,  when  Mr.  Hefty 
Burke  shouldered  in  between  him  and  Miss  Casey. 
He  was  dressed  in  his  best  suit  of  clothes,  and  his 
hair  was  conspicuously  damp. 

"Excuse  me.  Patsy,"  said  Mr.  Burke,  as  he 
took  Miss  Casey's  arm  in  his,  "  but  this  march  is 
promised  to  me.  I'm  sorry  I  was  late,  and  Pm  sor- 
ry to  disappoint  you;  but  you're  like  the  lad  that 
drives  the  hansom  cab,  see  ? — ^you're  not  in  it." 

"But  indeed,"  said  Miss  Casey,  later,  "you 
shouldn't  have  kept  me  a-waiting.   It  wasn't  civil." 

"I  know,"  assented  Hefty,  gloomily,  "but  I 
came  as  soon  as  I  could.  I  even  went  widout  me 
supper  so's  to  get  here  ;  an'  they  wuz  expectin' 
me  to  stay  to  supper,  too." 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 


HOW  HEFTY  BUEKE  GOT  EYEJST 


HEFTY  BURKE  was  once  clubbed  by  a 
policeman  named  McCluire,  who  excused 
the  clubbing  to  his  Honor  by  swearing  that 
Hefty  had  been  drunk  and  disorderly,  which  was 
not  true.  Hefty  got  away  from  the  Island  by 
swimming  the  East  River,  and  swore  to  get  even 
with  the  policeman.  This  story  tells  how  he  got 
even. 

Mr.  Carstairs  was  an  artist  who  had  made  his 
first  great  success  by  painting  figures  and  land- 
scajDCS  in  Brittany.  He  had  a  studio  at  Fifty- 
eighth  Street  and  Sixth  Avenue,  and  was  engaged 
on  an  historical  subject  in  which  there  were  three 
figures.  One  was  a  knight  in  full  armor,  and  the 
other  was  a  Moor,  and  the  third  was  the  figure 
of  a  woman.  The  suit  of  armor  had  been  pur- 
chased by  Mr.  Carstairs  in  Paris,  and  was  be- 
lieved to  have  been  worn  by  a  brave  nobleman, 
one  of  whose  extravagant  descendants  had  sold 
everything  belonging  to  his  family  in  order  to 
get  money  with  which  to  play  baccarat.  Car- 
stairs was  at  the  sale  and  paid  a  large  price 
for  the  suit  of  armor  which  the  Marquis  de  Neu- 


184      HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

ville  had  worn,  and  set  it  up  in  a  corner  of  his 
studio.  It  was  in  eight  or  a  dozen  pieces,  and 
quite  heavy,  but  was  wonderfully  carved  and  in- 
laid with  silver,  and  there  were  dents  on  it  that 
showed  where  a  Saracen's  scimetar  had  been 
dulled  and  many  a  brave  knight's  spear  had 
struck.  Mr.  Carstairs  had  paid  so  much  for  it 
that  he  thought  he  ought  to  make  a  better  use  of 
it,  if  possible,  than  sirapl}^  to  keep  it  dusted  and 
show  it  off  to  his  friends.  So  he  began  this  his- 
torical picture,  and  engaged  Hefty  Burke  to  pose 
as  the  knight  and  wear  the  armor.  Hefty's  feat- 
ures were  not  exactly  the  sort  of  features  you 
would  imagine  a  Marquis  de  Neuville  would 
have ;  but  as  his  visor  was  down  in  the  picture, 
it  did  not  make  much  material  difference ;  and  as 
his  figure  was  superb,  he  answered  very  well. 
Hefty  drove  an  ice-wagon  during  business  hours, 
and,  as  a  personal  favor  to  Mr.  Carstairs,  agreed 
to  pose  for  him,  for  a  consideration,  two  after- 
noons of  each  w^eek,  and  to  sleep  in  the  studio 
at  night,  for  it  was  filled  with  valuable  things. 

The  armor  was  a  never-ending  source  of  amaze- 
ment and  bewilderment  to  Hefty.  He  could  not 
understand  why  a  man  w^ould  wear  such  a  suit, 
and  especially  when  he  went  out  to  fight.  It 
was  the  last  thing  in  the  world  he  would  individu- 
ally have  selected  in  which  to  make  war. 

"Ef  I  was  goin'  to  scrap  wid  anybody,"  he 
said  to  Mr.  Carstairs,  "I'd  as  lief  tie  meself  up 
wid  dumb-bells  as  take  to  carry  all  this  stuff  on 


HOW    HEFTY    BURKE    GOT   EVEN  185 

me.  A  man  wid  a  baseball  bat  and  swimmin' 
tights  on  could  dance  all  around  j'ouse  and  knock 
spots  out  of  one  of  these  things.  The  other  lad 
wouldn't  be  in  it.  Why,  before  he  could  lift  his 
legs  or  get  his  hands  up  you  cud  hit  him  on  his 
helmet,  and  he  wouldn't  know  what  killed  him. 
They  must  hev  sat  down  to  fight  in  them  days." 

Mr.  Carstairs  painted  on  in  silence  and  smiled 
grimly. 

"I'd  like  to  have  seen  a  go  with  the  parties 
fixed  out  in  a  pair  of  these  things,"  continued 
Hefty.  "  I'd  bet  on  the  lad  that  got  in  the  first 
w^hack.  He  wouldn't  have  to  do  nothing  but 
shove  the  other  one  over  on  his  back  and  fall  on 
him.  Why,  I  guess  this  weighs  half  a  ton  if  it 
weighs  an  ounce  !" 

For  all  his  contempt.  Hefty  Iiad  a  secret  ad- 
miration for  the  ancient  marquis  who  had  worn 
this  suit,  and  had  been  strong  enough  to  carry  its 
weight  and  demolish  his  enemies  besides.  The 
marks  on  the  armor  interested  him  greatly,  and 
he  w^as  very  much  impressed  one  day  when  he 
found  what  he  declared  to  be  blood-stains  on  the 
lining  of  the  helmet. 

"I  guess  the  old  feller  that  w^ore  this  was  a 
sport,  eh  ?"  he  said,  proudly,  shaking  the  pieces 
on  his  arms  until  they  rattled.  "  I  guess  he 
done  'em  up  pretty  well  for  all  these  handicaj^s. 
I'll  bet  when  he  got  to  falling  around  on  'em  and 
butting  'em  with  this  fire  helmet  he  made  'em 
purty  tired.     Don't  youse  think  so  ?" 


186  HOW    HEFTY    BURKE   GOT   EVEN 

Young  Carstairs  said  he  didn't  doubt  it  for  a 
moment. 

The  Small  Hours  Social  Club  was  to  give  a 
prize  masquerade  ball  at  the  Palace  Garden  on 
New  Year's  Night,  and  Hefty  had  decided  to  go. 
Every  gentleman  dancer  was  to  get  a  white  silk 
badge  with  a  gold  tassel,  and  every  committee- 
man received  a  blue  badge  with  "  Committee " 
written  across  it  in  brass  letters.  It  cost  three 
dollars  to  be  a  committeeman,  but  only  one  dol- 
lar "  for  self  and  lady."  There  were  three  prizes. 
One  of  a  silver  water-pitcher  for  the  "handsomest- 
costumed  lady  dancer,"  an  accordion  for  the  "best- 
dressed  gent,"  and  a  cake  for  the  most  original 
idea  in  costume,  whether  worn  by  "  gent  or  lady." 
Hefty,  as  well  as  many  others,  made  up  his  mind 
to  get  the  accordion,  if  it  cost  him  as  much  as 
seven  dollars,  w^hich  was  half  of  his  week's  wages. 
It  wasn't  the  prize  he  wanted  so  much,  but  he 
thought  of  the  impression  it  w^ould  make  on  Miss 
Casey,  whose  father  was  the  w^ell-known  janitor  of 
that  name.  They  had  been  engaged  for  some 
time,  but  the  engagement  hung  fire,  and  Hefty 
thought  that  a  becoming  and  appropriate  costume 
might  hasten  matters  a  little.  He  was  undecided 
as  to  whether  he  should  go  as  an  Indian  or  as  a 
courtier  of  the  time  of  Charles  II.  Auchmuty 
Stein,  of  the  Bowery,  who  supplies  costumes  and 
wigs  at  reasonable  rates,  was  of  the  opinion  that 
a  neat  sailor  suit  of  light  blue  silk  and  decorated 
with  white  anchors  was  about  the  "  brettiest  thing 


HOW    HEFTY    BURKE    GOT   EVEN  187 

in  the  shop,  and  sheap  at  fife  dollars ;"  but  Hefty- 
said  he  never  saw  a  sailor  in  silk  yet,  and  he  didn't 
think  they  ever  wore  it.  He  couldn't  see  how 
they  could  keep  the  tar  and  salt-water  from  ruin- 
ing it. 

The  Charles  II.  court  suit  was  very  handsome, 
and  consisted  of  red  cotton  tights,  blue  velveteen 
doublet,  and  a  blue  cloak  lined  with  pale  pink  silk. 
A  yellow  wig  went  with  this,  and  a  jewelled 
sword  which  would  not  come  out  of  the  scabbard. 
It  could  be  had  for  seven  dollars  a  night.  Hefty 
was  still  in  doubt  about  it  and  was  much  per- 
plexed. Auchrauty  Stein  told  him  Charlie  Mack- 
lin,  the  Third  Avenue  ticket-chopper,  was  after  the 
same  suit,  and  that  he  had  better  take  it  while  he 
could  get  it.  But  Hefty  said  he'd  think  about  it. 
The  next  day  was  his  day  for  posing,  and  as  he 
stood  arrayed  in  the  Marquis  de  Neuville's  suit  of 
raail  he  chanced  to  see  himself  in  one  of  the  long 
mirrors,  and  was  for  the  first  time  so  struck  with 
the  ferocity  of  his  appearance  that  he  determined 
to  see  if  old  man  Stein  had  not  a  suit  of  imitation 
armor,  which  would  not  be  so  heavy  and  would 
look  as  well.  But  the  more  Hefty  thought  of  it, 
the  more  he  believed  that  only  the  real  suit  would 
do.  Its  associations,  its  blood-stains,  and  the  real 
silver  tracings  haunted  him,  and  he  half  decided 
to  ask  Mr.  Carstairs  to  lend  it  to  him. 

But  then  he  remembered  overhearing  Carstairs 
tell  a  brother-artist  that  he  had  paid  two  thousand 
francs  for  it,  and,  though  he  did  not  know  how 


188       HOW  HEFTY  BUKKE  GOT  EVEN 

much  a  franc  might  be,  two  thousand  of  anything 
was  too  much  to  wear  around  at  a  masquerade 
ball.  But  the  thing  haunted  him.  He  was  sure 
if  Miss  Casey  saw  him  in  that  suit  she  would 
never  look  at  Charlie  Macklin  again. 

"  They  wouldn't  be  in  the  same  town  with  me," 
said  Hefty.  "  And  I'd  get  two  of  the  prizes, 
sure." 

He  was  in  great  perplexity,  when  good  luck  or 
bad  luck  settled  it  for  him. 

"Burke,"  said  Mr.  Carstairs,  "Mrs.  Carstairs 
and  I  are  going  out  of  town  for  New  Year's  Day, 
and  will  be  gone  until  Sunday.  Take  a  turn 
through  the  rooms  each  night,  will  you  ?  as  well 
as  the  studio,  and  see  that  everything  is  all  right." 
That  clinched  the  matter  for  Heft}^  He  deter- 
mined to  go  as  far  as  the  Palace  Garden  as  the 
Marquis  de  Neuville,  and  say  nothing  whatever 
to  Mr.  Carstairs  about  it. 

Stuff  McGovern,  who  drove  a  night-hawk  and 
who  was  a  particular  admirer  of  Hefty's,  even 
though  as  a  cabman  he  was  in  a  higher  social 
scale  than  the  driver  of  an  ice-cart,  agreed  to  car- 
ry Hefty  and  his  half-ton  of  armor  to  the  Gar- 
den, and  call  for  him  when  the  ball  was  over. 

"  Holee  smoke !"  gasped  Mr.  McGovern,  as 
Hefty  stumbled  heavily  across  the  pavement  with 
an  overcoat  over  his  armor  and  his  helmet  under 
his  arm.  "Do  you  expect  to  do  much  dancing 
in  that  sheet-iron?" 

"  It's  the  looks  of  the  thing  I'm  gambling  on,'- 


HOW   HEFTY   BURKE   GOT   EVEN  189 

said  Hefty.  "  I  look  like  a  locomoteeve  when  I 
get  this  stovepipe  on  me  head." 

Hefty  put  on  his  helmet  in  the  cab  and  pulled 
down  the  visor,  and  when  he  alighted  the  crowd 
around  the  door  was  too  greatly  awed  to  jeer,  but 
stood  silent  with  breathless  admiration.  He  had 
great  difficulty  in  mounting  the  somewhat  steep 
flight  of  stairs  which  led  to  the  dancing-room,  and 
considered  gloomily  that  in  the  event  of  a  fire  he 
would  have  a  very  small  chance  of  getting  out 
alive.  He  made  so  much  noise  coming  up  that  the 
committeemen  thought  some  one  was  rolling  some 
one  else  down  the  stairs,  and  came  out  to  see  the 
fight.  They  observed  Hefty's  approach  with 
whispered  awe  and  amazement. 

"Wot  are  you?"  asked  the  man  at  the  door. 
"Youse  needn't  give  your  real  name,"  he  ex- 
plained, politely.  *'  But  you've  got  to  give  some- 
thing if  youse  are  trying  for  a  prize,  see?" 

"  I'm  the  Black  Knight,"  said  Hefty  in  a  hoarse 
voice,  "  the  Marquis  de  Newveal ;  and  when  it 
comes  to  scrappin'  wid  der  perlice,  I'm  de  best 
in  der  business." 

This  last  statement  was  entirely  impromptu,  and 
inspired  by  the  presence  of  Policeman  McCluire, 
who,  with  several  others,  had  been  detailed  to 
keep  order.  McCluire  took  this  challenge  calm- 
ly, and  looked  down  and  smiled  at  Hefty's  feet. 

"  He  looks  like  a  stove  on  two  legs,"  he  said 
to  the  crowd.  The  crowd,  as  a  matter  of  policy, 
laughed. 


190      now  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

"  You'll  look  like  a  fool  standing  on  his  head  in 
a  snow-bank  if  you  talk  impudent  to  me,"  said 
Hefty,  epigrammatically,  from  behind  the  barrier 
of  his  iron  mask.  What  might  have  happened 
next  did  not  happen,  because  at  that  moment  the 
music  sounded  for  the  grand  march,  and  Hefty 
and  the  policeman  were  swept  apart  by  the  crowd 
of  Indians,  Mexicans,  courtiers,  negro  minstrels, 
and  clowns.  Hefty  stamped  across  the  waxed 
floor  about  as*  lightly  as  a  safe  could  do  it  if  a 
safe  could  walk.  He  found  Miss  Casey  after  the 
march  and  disclosed  his  identity.  She  promised 
not  to  tell,  and  was  plainly  delighted  and  flattered 
at  being  seen  with  the  distinct  sensation  of  the 
ball.  "Say,  Hefty,"  she  said,  "they  just  ain't  in 
it  with  you.  You'll  take  the  two  prizes  sure. 
How  do  I  look?" 

"  Out  o'  sight,"  said  Hefty.  "  Never  saw  you 
lookin'  better." 

''That's  good,"  said  Miss  Casey,  simply,  and 
with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

Hefty  was  undoubtedly  a  great  success.  The 
men  came  around  him  and  pawed  him,  and  felt 
the  dents  in  the  armor,  and  tried  the  weight  of  it 
by  holding  up  one  of  his  arms,  and  handled  him 
generally  as  though  he  were  a  freak  in  a  museum. 
"Let  'em  alone,"  said  Hefty  to  Miss  Casey,  "I'm 
not  sayin'  a  word.  Let  the  judges  get  on  to  the 
sensation  I'm  a-makin,'  and  I'll  walk  off  with  the 
prizes.     The  crowd  is  wid  me  sure." 

At  midnight  the  judges  pounded  on  a  table 


HOW   HEFTY   BUEKE   GOT  EVEN  191 

for  order,  and  announced  that  after  much  debate 
they  gave  the  first  prize  to  Miss  Lizzie  Cannon,  of 
Hester  Street,  for  -^having  the  most  handsomest 
costume  on  the  floor,  that  of  Columbia."  The 
fact  that  Mr.  "  Buck"  Masters,  who  was  one  of  the 
judges,  and  who  was  engaged  to  Miss  Cannon, 
had  said  that  he  would  pound  things  out  of  the 
other  judges  if  they  gave  the  prize  elsewhere  was 
not  known,  but  the  decision  met  with  as  general 
satisfaction  as  could  well  be  expected. 

"The  second  prize,"  said  the  judges,  "goes  to 
the  gent  calling  himself  the  Black  Knight — ^him 
in  the  iron  leggings — and  the  other  prize  for  the 
most  original  costume  goes  to  him,  too."  Half  the 
crowd  cheered  at  this,  and  only  one  man  hissed. 
Hefty,  filled  with  joy  and  with  the  anticipation  of 
the  elegance  the  ice-pitcher  would  lend  to  his  flat 
when  he  married  Miss  Casey,  and  how  conven- 
iently he  could  fill  it,  turned  on  this  gentleman 
and  told  him  that  only  geese  hissed. 

The  gentleman,  who  had  spent  much  time  on 
his  costume,  and  who  had  been  assured  by  each 
judge  on  each  occasion  that  evening  when  he  had 
treated  him  to  beer  that  he  would  get  the  prize, 
told  Hefty  to  go  lie  down.  It  has  never  been 
explained  just  what  horrible  insult  lies  back  of 
this  advice,  but  it  is  a  very  dangerous  thing  to 
tell  a  gentleman  to  do.  Hefty  lifted  one  foot 
heavily  and  bore  down  on  the  disappointed  mask- 
er like  an  ironclad  in  a  heavy  sea.  But  before 
he  could  reach  him  Policeman  McCluire,  mind- 


192      HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

fill  of  the  insult  put  upon  him  by  this  stranger, 
sprang  between  them  and  said  :  "  Here,  now,  no 
scrapping  here  ;  get  out  of  this,"  and  shoved 
Hefty  back  with  his  hand.  Hefty  tittered  a 
mighty  howl  of  wrath  and  long-cherished  anger, 
and  lurched  forward,  but  before  he  could  reach 
his  old-time  enemy  three  policemen  had  him 
around  the  arms  and  by  the  leg,  and  he  was  as  ef- 
fectually stopped  as  though  he  had  been  chained 
to  the  floor. 

"  Let  go  o'  me,"  said  Hefty,  -wildly.  "  You're 
smotherin'  me.     Give  me  a  fair  chance  at  him." 

But  they  would  not  give  him  any  sort  of  a 
chance.  They  rushed  him  down  the  steep  stairs, 
and  while  McCluire  ran  ahead  two  more  pushed 
back  the  crowd  that  had  surged  uncertainly  for- 
ward to  the  rescue.  If  Hefty  had  declared  his 
identity  the  police  would  have  had  a  very  sad 
time  of  it ;  but  that  he  must  not  get  Mr.  Car- 
stairs's  two-thousand-franc  suit  into  trouble  was 
all  that  filled  Hefty 's  mind,  and  all  that  he  wanted 
was  to  escape.  Three  policemen  walked  with  him 
down  the  street.  They  said  they  knew  where  he 
lived,  and  that  they  were  only  going  to  take  him 
home.  They  said  this  because  they  were  afraid 
the  crowd  would  interfere  if  it  imagined  Hefty 
was  being  led  to  the  precinct  station-house. 

But  Hefty  knew  where  he  was  going  as  soon  as 
he  turned  the  next  corner  and  was  started  off  in 
the  direction  of  the  station-house.  There  was 
still  quite  a  small  crowd  at  his  heels,  and  Stuff 


HOW   HEFTY    BUKKE    GOT    EVEX  193 

McGovern  was  driving  along  at  the  side  anxious 
to  help,  but  fearful  to  do  anything,  as  Hefty  had 
told  him.  not  to  let  any  one  know  who  his  fare 
had  been  and  that  his  incognito  must  be  pre- 
served. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Hefty's  head  like  hot 
liquor.  To  be  arrested  for  nothing,  and  by  that 
thing  McCluire,  and  to  have  the  noble  coat-of- 
raail  of  the  Marquis  de  Keuville  locked  up  in  a 
dirty  cell  and  probably  ruined,  and  to  lose  his 
position  with  Carstairs,  who  had  always  treated 
him  so  well,  it  was  terrible  !  It  could  not  be ! 
He  looked  through  his  visor  ;  to  the  right  and  to 
the  left  a  policeman  walked  on  each  side  of  him 
with  his  hand  on  his  iron  sleeve,  and  McCluire 
marched  proudly  before.  The  dim  lamps  of  Mc- 
Govern's  night-hawk  shone  at  the  side  of  the 
procession  and  showed  the  crowd  trailing  on 
behind.  Suddenly  Hefty  threw  up  his  visor. 
"  Stuff,"  he  cried,  "  are  youse  with  me  ?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  any  answer,  but  swung 
back  his  two  iron  arms  and  then  brought  them 
forward  w^th  a  sweep  on  to  the  back  of  the 
necks  of  the  two  policemen.  They  went  down 
and  forward  as  if  a  lamp-post  had  fallen  on  them, 
but  were  up  again  in  a  second.  But  before  they 
could  rise  Hefty  set  his  teeth,  and  with  a  gurgle 
of  joy  butted  his  iron  helmet  into  McCluire's 
back  and  sent  him  flying  forward  into  a  snow- 
bank. Then  he  threw  himself  on  him  and  buried 
him  under  three  hundred  pounds  of  iron  and 
13 


194   "    HOW  HEFTY  BUEKE  GOT  EVEN 

flesh  and  blood,  and  beat  him  with  his  mailed 
hand  over  the  head  and  choked  the  snow  and  ice 
down  into  his  throat  and  nostrils. 

"You'll  club  me  again,  will  you?"  he  cried. 
"You'll  send  me  to  the  Island?"  The  two  po- 
licemen were  pounding  him  with  their  night- 
sticks as  effectually  as  though  they  were  rapping 
on  a  door-step  ;  and  the  crowd,  seeing  this,  fell 
on  them  from  behind,  led  by  Stuff  McGovern 
with  his  whip,  and  rolled  them  in  the  snow  and 
tried  to  tear  off  their  coat-tails,  which  means 
money  out  of  the  policeman's  own  pocket  for  re- 
pairs, and  hurts  more  than  broken  ribs,  as  the 
Police  Benefit  Society  pays  for  them. 

"Now  then,  boys,  get  me  into  a  cab,"  cried 
Hefty.  They  lifted  him  in  and  obligingly  blew 
out  the  lights  so  that  the  police  could  not  see  its 
number,  and  Stuff  drove  Hefty  proudly  home. 
"I  guess  I'm  even  with  that  cop  now,"  said 
Hefty  as  he  stood  at  the  door  of  the  studio  build- 
ing perspiring  and  happy  ;  "  but  if  them  cops  ever 
find  out  who  the  Black  Knight  was,  I'll  go  away 
for  six  months  on  the  Island.  I  guess,"  he  add- 
ed, thoughtfully,  "I'll"  have  to  give  them  two 
prizes  up." 


OUTSIDE  THE  PEISON 


OUTSIDE   THE   PEISON 


IT  was  about  ten  o'clock  on  the  night  before 
Christmas,  and  very  cold.  Christmas  Eve  is 
a  very-much-occupied  evening  everywhere,  in  a 
newspaper  office  especially  so,  and  all  of  the  twen- 
ty and  odd  reporters  were  out  that  night  on  as- 
signments, and  Conway  and  Bronson  were  the 
only  two  remaining  in  the  local  room.  They  were 
the  very  best  of  friends,  in  the  office  and  out  of 
it ;  but  as  the  city  editor  had  given  Conway  the 
Christmas  -  eve  story  to  write  instead  of  Bron- 
son, the  latter  was  jealous,  and  their  relations 
were  strained.  I  use  the  word  "story"  in  the 
newspaper  sense,  where  everything  written  for 
the  paper  is  a  story,  whether  it  is  an  obituary,  or 
a  reading  notice,  or  a  dramatic  criticism,  or  a  de- 
scriptive account  of  the  crowded  streets  and  the 
lighted  shop-windows  of  a  Christmas  Eve.  Con- 
way had  finished  his  story  quite  half  an  hour  be- 
fore, and  should  have  sent  it  out  to  be  mutilated 
by  the  blue  pencil  of  a  copy  editor ;  but  as  the 
city  editor  had  twice  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
local  room,  as  though  looking  for  some  one  to 
send  out  on  another  assignment,  both  Conway  and 


198  OUTSIDE   TUE   PEISON 

Bronson  kept  on  steadily  writing  against  time,  to 
keep  him  off  until  some  one  else  came  in.  Con- 
way had  written  his. concluding  paragraph  a  dozen 
times,  and  Bronson  had  conscientiously  polished 
and  repolished  a  three -line  "personal"  he  was 
writing,  concerning  a  gentleman  unknown  to  fame, 
and  who  would  remain  unknown  to  fame  until  that 
paragraph  appeared  in  print. 

The  city  editor  blocked  the  door  for  the  third 
time,  and  looked  at  Bronson  with  a  faint  smile  of 
sceptical  appreciation. 

"  Is  that  very  important  ?"  he  asked. 

Bronson  said,  "  Not  very,"  doubtfully,  as 
though  he  did  not  think  his  opinion  should  be 
trusted  on  such  a  matter,  and  eyed  the  paragraph 
with  critical  interest.  Conway  rushed  his  pencil 
over  his  paper,  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue  showing 
between  his  teeth,  and  became  suddenly  absorbed. 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  are  not  very  busy,"  said  the 
city  editor,  "  I  wish  you  would  go  down  to  Moy- 
amensing.  They  release  that  bank-robber  Quinn 
to-night,  and  it  ought  to  make  a  good  story.  He 
was  sentenced  for  six  years,  I  think,  but  he  has 
been  commuted  for  good  conduct  and  bad  health. 
There  was  a  preliminary  story  about  it  in  the  pa- 
per this  morning,  and  you  can  get  all  the  facts 
from  that.  It's  Christmas  Eve,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing,  and  you  ought  to  be  able  to  make  some- 
thing of  it." 

There  are  certain  stories  written  for  a  Philadel- 
phia newspaper  that  circle  into  print  with  the 


OUTSIDE    THE   PRISON  199 

regularity  of  the  seasons.  There  is  the  "First 
Sunday  in  the  Park,"  for  example,  which  comes 
on  the  first  warm  Sunday  in  the  spring,  and  which 
is  made  up  of  a  talk  with  a  park  policeman  who 
guesses  at  the  number  of  people  who  have  passed 
through  the  gates  that  day,  and  announcements 
of  the  re-painting  of  the  boat-houses  and  the  near 
approach  of  the  open-air  concerts.  You  end  this 
story  with  an  allusion  to  the  presence  in  the  park 
of  the  "  wan-faced  children  of  the  tenement,"  and 
the  worthy  workingmen  (if  it  is  a  one-cent  paper 
which  the  workingmen  are  likely  to  read),  and 
tell  how  they  worshipped  nature  in  the  open  air, 
instead  of  saying  that  in  place  of  going  properly  to 
church,  they  sat  around  in  their  shirt-sleeves  and 
scattered  egg-shells  and  empty  beer  bottles  and 
greasy  Sunday  newspapers  over  the  green  grass 
for  which  the  worthy  men  who  do  not  work  pay 
taxes.  Then  there  is  the  "  Hottest  Sunday  in  the 
Park,"  which  comes  up  a  month  later,  when  you 
increase  the  park  policeman's  former  guess  by 
fifteen  thousand,  and  give  it  a  news  value  by 
adding  a  list  of  the  small  boys  drowned  in  bath- 
ing. 

The  "First  Haul  of  Shad"  in  the  Delaware  is 
another  reliable  story,  as  is  also  the  first  ice  fit 
for  skating  in  the  park  ;  and  then  there  is  always 
the  Thanksgiving  story,  when  you  ask  the  theat- 
rical managers  what  they  have  to  be  thankful  for, 
and  have  them  tell  you,  "  For  the  best  season  that 
this  theatre  has  ever  known,  sir,"  and  offer  you  a 


200  OUTSIDE    THE    PEISON 

pass  for  two  ;  and  there  is  the  New  Year's  story, 
when  you  interview  the  local  celebrities  as  to 
what  they  most  want  for  the  new  year,  and  turn 
their  commonplace  replies  into  something  clever. 
There  is  also  a  story  on  Christmas  Bay,  and  the 
one  Conway  had  just  written  on  the  street  scenes 
of  Christmas  Eve.  After  you  have  written  one  of 
these  stories  two  or  three  times,  you  find  it  just 
as  easy  to  write  it  in  the  office  as  anywhere  else. 
One  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  did  this  most 
unsuccessfully.  He  wrote  his  Christmas-day  story 
■with  the  aid  of  a  directory  and  the  file  of  a  last 
year's  paper.  From  the  year-old  file  he  obtained 
the  names  of  all  the  charitable  institutions  which 
made  a  practice  of  giving  their  charges  presents 
and  Christmas  trees,  and  from  the  directory  he 
drew  the  names  of  their  presidents  and  boards 
of  directors  ;  but  as  he  was  unfortunately  lacking 
in  religious  knowledge  and  a  sense  of  humor,  he 
included  all  the  Jewish  institutions  on  the  list, 
and  they  wrote  to  the  paper  and  rather  objected 
to  being  represented  as  decorating  Christmas  trees, 
or  in  any  way  celebrating  that  particular  day. 
But  of  all  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable  stories,  this 
releasing  of  prisoners  from  Moyamensing  was  the 
worst.  It  seemed  to  Bronson  that  they  were  al- 
ways releasing  prisoners  ;  he  wondered  how  they 
possibly  left  themselves  enough  to  make  a  county 
prison  worth  while.  And  the  city  editor  for  some 
reason  always  chose  him  to  go  down  and  see  them 
come  out.     As  they  were  released  at  midnight, 


OUTSIDE   THE   PRISON  201 

and  never  did  anything  of  moment  wlien  they 
were  released  but  to  immediately  cross  over  to 
the  nearest  saloon  with  all  their  disreputable 
friends  who  had  gathered  to  meet  them,  it  was 
trying  to  one  whose  regard  for  the  truth  was  at 
first  unshaken,  and  whose  imagination  at  the  last 
became  exhausted.  So,  when  Bronson  heard  he 
had  to  release  another  prisoner  in  pathetic  de- 
scriptive prose,  he  lost  heart  and  patience,  and 
rebelled. 

"Andy,"  he  said,  sadly  and  impressively,  **if 
I  have  written  that  story  once,  I  have  written  it 
twenty  times.  I  have  described  Moyamensing 
with  the  moonlight  falling  on  its  walls  ;  I  have 
described  it  with  the  walls  shining  in  the  rain ;  I 
have  described  it  covered  with  the  pure  white 
snow  that  falls  on  the  just  as  well  as  on  the 
criminal ;  and  I  have  made  the  bloodhounds  in 
the  jail-yard  howl  dismally — and  there  are  no 
bloodhounds,  as  you  very  well  know  ;  and  I  have 
made  released  convicts  declare  their  intention  to 
lead  a  better  and  a  purer  life,  when  they  only 
said,  *  If  youse  put  anything  in  the  paper  about 
me,  I'll  lay  for  you ;'  and  I  have  made  them  fall 
on  the  necks  of  their  weeping  wives,  when  they 
only  asked,  *Did  you  bring  me  some  tobacco? 
I'm  sick  for  a  pipe  ;'  and  I  will  not  write  any 
more  about  it ;  and  if  I  do,  I  will  do  it  herq  in 
the  office,  and  that  is  all  there  is  to  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  think  you  will,"  said  the  city  editor, 
easily. 


202  OUTSIDE   THE   PEISON 

"Let  some  one  else  do  it,"  Bronson  pleaded — 
"some  one  who  hasn't  done  the  thing  to  death, 
who  will  get  a  new  point  of  view — "  Conway, 
who  had  stopped  writing,  and  had  been  grinning 
at  Bronson  over  the  city  editor's  back,  grew  sud- 
denly grave  and  absorbed,  and  began  to  write 
again  w^th  feverish  industry.  "  Conway,  now, 
he's  great  at  that  sort  of  thing.     He's — " 

The  city  editor  laid  a  clipping  from  the  morn- 
ing paper  on  the  desk,  and  took  a  roll  of  bills 
from  his  pocket. 

"  There's  the  preliminary  story,"  he  said.  "  Con- 
way wrote  it,  and  it  moved  several  good  people 
to  stop  at  the  business  office  on  their  way  down- 
town and  leave  something  for  the  released  con- 
vict's Christmas  dinner.  The  story  is  a  very  good 
story,  and  impressed  them,"  he  went  on,  counting 
out  the  bills  as  he  spoke,  "to  the  extent  of  fifty- 
five  dollars.  You  take  that  and  give  it  to  him, 
and  tell  him  to  forget  the  past,  and  keep  to  the 
narrow  road,  and  leave  jointed  jimmies  alone. 
That  money  will  give  you  an  excuse  for  talking 
to  him,  and  he  may  say  something  grateful  to  the 
paper,  and  comment  on  its  enterprise.  Come, 
now,  get  up.  I've  spoiled  you  two  boys.  You've 
been  sulking  all  the  evening  because  Conway  got 
that  story,  and  now  you  are  sulking  because  you 
have  got  a  better  one.  Think  of  it — getting  out 
of  prison  after  four  years,  and  on  Christmas  Eve  ! 
It's  a  beautiful  story  just  as  it  is.  But,"  he  added, 
grimly,  "you'll  try  to  improve  on  it,  and  grow 


OUTSIDE   THE   PBISON  203 

maudlin.  I  believe  sometimes  you'd  turn  a  red 
light  on  the  dying  gladiator." 

The  conscientiously  industrious  Conway,  now 
that  his  fear  of  being  sent  out  again  was  at  rest, 
laughed  at  this  with  conciliatory  mirth,  and  Bron- 
son  smiled  sheepishly,  and  peace  was  restored 
between  them. 

But  as  Bronson  capitulated,  he  tried  to  make 
conditions.     "  Can  I  take  a  cab  ?"  he  asked. 

The  city  editor  looked  at  his  watch.  "Yes," 
he  said ;  "  you'd  better ;  it's  late,  and  Ave  go  to 
press  early  to-night,  remember." 

"And  can  I  send  my  stuff  down' by  the  driver 
and  go  home  ?"  Bronson  went  on.  "  I  can  write 
it  up  there,  and  leave  the  cab  at  Fifteenth  Street, 
near  our  house.  I  don't  want  to  come  all  the  way 
down-town  again." 

"  No,"  said  the  chief  ;  "  the  driver  might  lose 
it,  or  get  drunk,  or  something." 

"Then  can  I  take  Gallegher  with  me  to  bring 
it  back  ?"  asked  Bronson.  Gallegher  was  one  of 
the  office-boys. 

The  city  editor  stared  at  him  grimly.  "  Would- 
n't you  like  a  type-writer,  and  Conway  to  write 
the  story  for  you,  and  a  hot  supper  sent  after 
you?"  he  asked. 

"  No  ;  Gallegher  will  do,"  Bronson  said. 

Gallegher  had  his  overcoat  on  and  a  night- 
hawk  at  the  door  when  Bronson  came  down 
the  stairs  and  stopped  to  light  a  cigar  in  the  hall- 
way. 


204  OUTSIDE   THE   PRISON 

"  Go  to  Moyaraensing,"  said  Galleglier  to  the 
driver. 

Gallegher  looked  at  the  man  to  see  if  he  would 
show  himself  sufficiently  human  to  express  sur- 
prise at  their  visiting  such  a  place  on  such  a  night, 
but  the  man  only  gathered  up  his  reins  impas- 
sively, and  Gallegher  stepped  into  the  cab,  with 
a  feeling  of  disappointment  at  having  missed  a 
point.  He  rubbed  the  frosted  panes  and  looked 
out  with  boyish  interest  at  the  passing  holiday- 
makers.  The  pavements  were  full  of  them  and 
their  bundles,  and  the  street  as  well,  with  waver- 
ing lines  of  medical  students  and  clerks  blowing 
joyfully  on  the  horns,  and  pushing  through  the 
crowd  with  one  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  man 
in  front.  The  Christmas  greens  hung  in  long 
lines,  and  only  stopped  where  a  street  crossed, 
and  the  shop  fronts  were  so  brilliant  that  the 
street  was  as  light  as  day. 

It  was  so  light  that  Bronson  could  read  the 
clipping  the  city  editor  had  given  him. 

"  What  is  it  we  are  going  on?"  asked  Gallegher. 

Gallegher  enjoyed  many  privileges  ;  they  were 
given  him  principally,  I  think,  because  if  they  had 
not  been  given  him  he  would  have  taken  them. 
He  was  very  young  and  small,  but  sturdily  built, 
and  he  had  a  general  knowledge  which  was  enter- 
taining, except  when  he  happened  to  know  more 
about  anything  than  you  did.  It  was  impossible 
to  force  him  to  respect  your  years,  for  he  knew 
all  about  you,  from  the  number  of  lines  that  had 


OUTSIDE    THE    PKISON  205 

been  cut  off  your  last  story  to  the  amount  of  your 
very  small  salary ;  and  there  was  an  awful  sim- 
plicity about  him,  and  a  certain  sympathy,  or  it 
may  have  been  merely  curiosity,  which  showed 
itself  towards  every  one  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact.  So  when  he  asked  Bronson  what  he  was 
going  to  do,  Bronson  read  the  clipping  in  his 
hand  aloud. 

"  '  Henry  Quinn,'  "  Bronson  read,  "  *  who  was 
sentenced  to  six  years  in  Moyamensing  Prison  for 
the  robbery  of  the  Second  National  Bank  at  Ta- 
cony,  will  be  liberated  to-night.  His  sentence  has 
been  commuted,  owing  to  good  conduct  and  to 
the  fact  that  for  the  last  year  he  has  been  in  very 
ill  health.  Quinn  was  night  watchman  at  the 
Tacony  bank  at  the  time  of  the  robbery,  and,  as 
was  shown  at  the  trial,  was  in  reality  merely  the 
tool  of  the  robbers.  He  confessed  to  complicity 
in  the  robbery,  but  disclaimed  having  any  knowl- 
edge of  the  later  whereabouts  of  the  money,  which 
has  never  been  recovered.  This  was  his  first  of- 
fence, and  he  had,  up  to  the  time  of  the  robbery, 
borne  a  very  excellent  reputation.  Although  but 
lately  married,  his  married  life  had  been  a  most 
unhappy  one,  his  friends  claiming  that  his  wife 
and  her  mother  were  the  most  to  blame.  Quinn 
took  to  spending  his  evenings  away  from  home, 
and  saw  a  great  deal  of  a  young  woman  who  was 
supposed  to  have  been  the  direct  cause  of  his  dis- 
honesty. He  admitted,  in  fact,  that  it  was  to  get 
money  to  enable  him  to  leave  the  country  with 


206  OUTSIDE   THE    PRISON 

her  that  he  agreed  to  assist  the  bank-robbers.  The 
paper  acknowledges  the  receipt  of  ten  dollars  from 
M.  J.  C.  to  be  given  to  Quinn  on  his  release,  also 
two  dollars  from  Cash  and  three  from  Mary. " 

Gallegher's  comment  on  this  was  one  of  disdain. 
"  There  isn't  much  in  that,"  he  said,  "  is  there  ? 
Just  a  man  that's  done  time  once,  and  they're  let- 
ting him  out.  Now,  if  it  was  Kid  McCoy,  or  Billy 
Porter,  or  some  one  like  that — eh?"  Gallcgher 
had  as  high  a  regard  for  a  string  of  aliases  after 
a  name  as  others  have  for  a  double  line  of  K.  C. 
B.'s  and  C.  S.  L.'s,  and  a  man  who  had  offended 
but  once  was  not  worthy  of  his  consideration. 
"  And  you  will  work  in  those  bloodhounds  again, 
too,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  gloomily. 

The  reporter  pretended  not  to  hear  this,  and  to 
doze  in  the  corner,  and  Gallegher  whistled  softly 
to  himself  and  twisted  luxuriously  on  the  cushions. 
It  was  a  half-hour  later  when  Bronson  awoke  to 
find  he  had  dozed  in  all  seriousness,  as  a  sudden 
current  of  cold  air  cut  in  his  face,  and  he  saw 
Gallegher  standing  with  his  hand  on  the  open 
door,  with  the  gray  wall  of  the  prison  rising  be- 
hind him. 

Moyamensing  looks  like  a  prison.  It  is  solidly, 
awfully  suggestive  of  the  sternness  of  its  duty 
and  of  the  hopelessness  of  its  failing  in  it.  It 
stands  like  a  great  fortress  of  the  Middle  Ages  in 
a  quadrangle  of  cheap  brick  and  white  dwelling- 
houses,  and  a  few  mean  shops  and  tawdry  saloons. 
It  has  the  towers  of  a  fortress,  the  pillars  of  an 


OUTSIDE    THE   PRISON  207 

Egyptian  temple  ;  but  more  impressive  than  either 
of  these  is  the  awful  simplicity  of  the  bare,  un- 
compromising wall  that  shuts  out  the  prying  eyes 
of  the  world  and  encloses  those  who  are  no  longer 
of  the  world.  It  is  hard  to  imagine  what  effect  it 
has  on  those  who  remain  in  the  houses  about  it. 
One  would  think  they  would  sooner  live  overlook- 
ing a  graveyard  than  such  a  place,  with  its  mys- 
tery and  hopelessness  and  unending  silence,  its 
hundreds  of  human  inmates  whom  no  one  can  see 
or  hear,  but  who,  one  feels,  are  there. 

Bronson,  as  he  looked  up  at  the  prison,  familiar 
as  it  was  to  him,  admitted  that  he  felt  all  this,  by 
a  frown  and  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  *'  You 
are  to  wait  here  until  twelve,"  he  said  to  the 
driver  of  the  nighthawk.    "  Don't  go  far  away." 

Bronson  and  the  boy  walked  to  an  oyster-saloon 
that  made  one  of  the  line  of  houses  facing  the 
gates  of  the  prison  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  and  seated  themselves  at  one  of  the  tables 
from  which  Bronson  could  see  out  towards  the 
northern  entrance  of  the  jail.  He  told  Gallegher 
to  eat  something,  so  that  the  saloon-keeper  would 
make  them  welcome  and  allow  them  to  remain, 
and  Gallegher  climbed  up  on  a  high  chair,  and 
heard  the  man  shout  back  his  order  to  the  kitchen 
with  a  faint  smile  of  anticipation.  It  was  eleven 
o'clock,  but  it  was  even  then  necessary  to  begin  to 
watch,  as  there  was  a  tradition  in  the  office  that 
prisoners  with  influence  were  sometimes  released 
before    their   sentence   was   quite    fulfilled,   and 


208  OUTSIDE   THE   PRISON 

Bronson  eyed  the  "  released  prisoners'  gate  "  from 
across  the  top  of  his  paper.  The  electric  lights 
before  the  prison  showed  every  stone  in  its  wall, 
and  turned  the  icy  pavements  into  black  mirrors 
of  light.  On  a  church  steeple  a  block  away  a 
round  clock-face  told  the  minutes,  and  Bronson 
wondered,  if  they  dragged  so  slowly  to  him,  how 
tardily  they  must  follow  one  another  to  the  men 
in  the  prison,  who  could  not  see  the  clock's  face. 
The  office-boy  finished  his  supper,  and  went  out 
to  explore  the  neighborhood,  and  came  back  later 
to  say  that  it  was  growing  colder,  and  that  he 
had  found  the  driver  in  a  saloon,  but  that  he  was, 
to  all  appearances,  still  sober.  Bronson  suggest- 
ed that  he  had  better  sacrifice  himself  once  again 
and  eat  something  for  the  good  of  the  house, 
and  Gallegher  assented  listlessly,  with  the  com- 
ment that  one  "might  as  well  be  eatin'  as  doin' 
nothin'."  He  went  out  again  restlessly,  and  was 
gone  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  Bronson  had 
re-read  the  day's  paper  and  the  signs  on  the  wall 
and  the  clipping  he  had  read  before,  and  was 
thinking  of  going  out  to  find  him,  when  Galle- 
gher put  his  head  and  arm  through  the  door  and 
beckoned  to  him  from  the  outside.  Bronson 
wrapped  his  coat  up  around  his  throat  and  fol- 
lowed him  leisurely  to  the  street.  Gallegher  halt- 
ed at  the  curb,  and  pointed  across  to  the  figure  of 
a  woman  pacing  up  and  down  in  the  glare  of  the 
electric  lights,  and  making  a  conspicuous  shadow 
on  tbe  white  surface  ol*  the  snow. 


OUTSIDE   THE    PRISON  209 

"  That  lady,"  said  Gallegher,  "  asked  me  what 
door  they  let  the  released  prisoners  out  of,  an'  I 
said  I  didn't  know,  but  that  I  knew  a  young  fel- 
low Tvho  did." 

Bronson  stood  considering  the  possible  value  of 
this  for  a  moment,  and  then  crossed  the  street 
slowly.  The  woman  looked  up  sharply  as  he  ap- 
proached, but  stood  still. 

"If  you  are  waiting  to  see  Quinn,"  Bronson 
said,  abruptly,  "he  will  come  out  of  that  upper 
gate,  the  green  one  with  the  iron  spikes  over  it.'* 

The  woman  stood  motionless,  and  looked  at 
him  doubtfully.  She  was  quite  young  and  pret- 
ty, but  her  face  was  drawn  and  wearied-looking, 
as  though  she  were  a  convalescent  or  one  who 
was  in  trouble.     She  was  of  the  working  class. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  him  myself,"  Bronson  said, 
to  reassure  her. 

"Are  you?"  the  girl  answered,  vaguely.  "Did 
you  try  to  see  him?"  She  did  not  wait  for  an 
answer,  but  went  on,  nervously  :  "  They  w^ouldn't 
let  me  see  him.  I  have  been  here  since  noon.  I 
thought  maybe  he  might  get  out  before  that,  and 
I'd  be  too  late.  You  are  sure  that  is  the  gate, 
are  you  ?  Some  of  them  told  me  there  was  an- 
other, and  I  was  afraid  I'd  miss  him.  I've  waited 
so  long,"  she  added.  Then  she  asked,  "  You're  a 
friend  of  his,  ain't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Bronson  said.  "I  am 
waiting  to  give  him  some  money." 

"  Yes  ?  I  have  some  money,  too,"  the  girl  said, 
14 


210  OUTSIDE    THE    PRISON 

slowly.  "  Not  much."  Then  she  looked  at  Bron- 
son  eagerly  and  with  a  touch  of  suspicion,  and 
took  a  step  backward.  "You're  no  friend  of 
hern,  are  you  ?"  she  asked,  sharply. 

"  Her  ?    Whom  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Bronson. 

But  Gallegher  interrupted  him.  "  Certainly 
not,"  he  said.     "Of  course  not." 

The  girl  gave  a  satisfied  nod,  and  then  turned 
to  retrace  her  steps  over  the  beat  she  had  laid  out 
for  herself. 

"  Whom  do  you  think  she  means?"  asked  Bron- 
son, in  a  whisper. 

"  His  wife,  I  suppose,"  Gallegher  answered,  im- 
patiently. 

The  girl  came  back,  as  if  finding  some  comfort 
in  their  presence.  "  She's  inside  now,"  with  a  nod 
of  her  head  towards  the  prison.  "Her  and  her 
mother.  They  come  in  a  cab,"  she  added,  as  if 
that  circumstance  made  it  a  little  harder  to  bear. 
"  And  when  I  asked  if  I  could  see  him,  the  man 
at  the  gate  said  he  had  orders  not.  I  suppose  she 
gave  him  them  orders.  Don't  you  think  so?" 
She  did  not  wait  for  a  reply,  but  went  on  as 
though  she  had  been  watching  alone  so  long  that 
it  was  a  relief  to  speak  to  some  one.  "  How  much 
money  have  you  got  ?'*  she  asked. 

Bronson  told  her. 

"  Fifty-five  dollars  !"  The  girl  laughed,  sadly. 
"  I  only  got  fifteen  dollars.  That  ain't  much,  is 
it?"  That's  all  I  could  make — I've  been  sick — 
that  and  the  fifteen  I  sent  the  paper." 


OUTSIDE    THE   PRISON  211 

"  Was  it  you  that — did  you  send  any  money  to 
a  paper?"  asked  Bronson. 

*'  Yes ;  I  sent  fifteen  dollars.  I  thought  maybe 
I  wouldn't  get  to  speak  to  him  if  she  came  out  with 
him,  and  I  wanted  him  to  have  the  money,  so  I  sent 
it  to  the  paper,  and  asked  them  to  see  he  got  it. 
I  give  it  under  three  names  :  I  give  my  initials, 
and  *  Cash,'  and  just  my  name — *  Mary.'  I  wanted 
him  to  know  it  was  me  give  it.  I  suppose  they'll 
send  it  all  right.  Fifteen  dollars  don't  look  like 
much  against  fifty-five  dollars,  does  it  ?"  She  took 
a  small  roll  of  bills  from  her  pocket  and  smiled 
down  at  them.  Her  hands  were  bare,  and  Bron- 
son saw  that  they  were  chapped  and  rough.  She 
rubbed  them  one  over  the  other,  and  smiled  at 
him  wearily. 

Bronson  could  not  place  her  in  the  story  he  was 
about  to  write ;  it  was  a  new  and  unlooked-for 
element,  and  one  that  promised  to  be  of  moment. 
He  took  the  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket  and  hand- 
ed them  to  her.  "You  might  as  well  give  him 
this  too,"  he  said.  "  I  will  be  here  until  he  comes 
out,  and  it  makes  no  difference  who  gives  him  the 
money,  so  long  as  he  gets  it." 

The  girl  smiled  confusedly.  The  show  of  con- 
fidence seemed  to  please  her.  But  she  said,  *'  No, 
I'd  rather  not.  You  see,  it  isn't  mine,  and  I  did 
work  for  this,"  holding  out  her  own  roll  of  money. 
She  looked  up  at  him  steadily,  and  paused  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  almost  defiantly,  "  Do  you 
know  who  I  am  ?" 


212  OUTSIDE   THE   PEISON 

"  I  can  guess,"  Bronson  said. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you  can,"  the  girl  answered. 
"Well,  you  can  believe  it  or  not,  just  as  you 
please  " — as  though  he  had  accused  her  of  some- 
thing— "but,  before  God,  it  wasn't  my  doings." 
She  pointed  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  towards  the 
prison  wall.  "  I  did  not  know  it  was  for  me  he 
helped  them  get  the  money  until  he  said  so  on  the 
stand.  I  didn't  know  he  was  thinking  of  running 
off  with  me  at  all.  I  guess  I'd  have  gone  if  he 
had  asked  me.  But  I  didn't  put  him  up  to  it  as 
they  said  I'd  done.  I  knew  he  cared  for  me  a 
lot,  but  I  didn't  think  he  cared  as  much  as  that. 
His  wife" — she  stopped,  and  seemed  to  consider 
her  words  carefully,  as  if  to  be  quite  fair  in  what 
she  said — "  his  wife,  I  guess,  didn't  know  just  how 
to  treat  him.  She  was  too  fond  of  going  out,  and 
having  company  at  the  house,  when  he  was  away 
nights  watching  at  the  bank.  When  they  was  first 
married  she  used  to  go  down  to  the  bank  and  sit 
up  with  him  to  keep  him  company ;  but  it  was 
lonesome  there  in  the  dark,  and  she  give  it  up. 
She  was  always  fond  of  company  and  having  men 
around.  Her  and  her  mother  are  a  good  deal 
alike.  Henry  used  to  grumble  about  it,  and  then 
she'd  get  mad,  and  that's  how  it  begun.  And  then 
the  neighbors  talked  too.  It  was  after  that  that 
he  got  to  coming  to  see  me.  I  was  living  out  in 
service  then,  and  he  used  to  stop  in  to  see  me  on 
his  way  back  from  the  bank,  about  seven  in  the 
morning,  when  I  was  up  in  the  kitchen  getting 


OUTSIDE   THE   PRISON  213 

breakfast.     I'd  give  liim  a  cup  of  coffee  or  some- 
thing, and  that's  how  we  got  acquainted." 

She  turned  her  face  away,  and  looked  at  the 
lights  farther  down  the  street.  "They  said  a 
good  deal  about  me  and  him  that  wasn't  true." 
There  was  a  pause,  and  then  she  looked  at  Bron- 
son  again.  *'  I  told  him  he  ought  to  stop  coming 
to  see  me,  and  to  make  it  up  with  his  wife,  but  he 
said  he  liked  me  best.  I  couldn't  help  his  saying 
that,  could  I,  if  he  did?  Then  he  —  then  this 
come,"  she  nodded  to  the  jail,  "  and  they  blamed 
me  for  it.  They  said  that  I  stood  in  with  the 
bank-robbers,  and  was  working  with  them  ;  they 
said  they  used  me  for  to  get  him  to  help  them." 
She  lifted  her  face  to  the  boy  and  the  man,  and 
they  saw  that  her  eyes  were  wet  and  that  her  face 
was  quivering.  "  That's  likely,  isn't  it  ?"  she  de- 
manded, with  a  sob.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  at  the  great  iron  gate,  and  then  at  the 
clock-face  glowing  dully  through  the  falling  snow : 
it  showed  a  quarter  to  twelve.  "  When  he  was 
put  away,"  she  went  on,  sadly,  "I  started  in  to 
wait  for  him,  and  to  save  something  against  his 
coming  otit.  I  only  got  three  dollars  a  week  and 
my  keep,  but  I  had  saved  one  hundred  and  thirty 
dollars  up  to  last  April,  and  then  I  took  sick,  and 
it  all  went  to  the  doctor  and  for  medicines.  I 
didn't  want  to  spend  it  that  way,  but  I  couldn't 
die  and  not  see  him.  Sometimes  I  thought  it 
would  be  better  if  I  did  die  and  save  the  money 
for  him,  and  then  there  wouldn't  be  any  more 


214  OUTSIDE   THE   PEISON 

trouble,  anyway.  But  I  couldn't  make  up  my 
mind  to  do  it.  I  did  go  without  taking  medicines 
tliey  laid  out  for  me  for  three  days  ;  but  I  had  to 
live^I  just  had  to.  Sometimes  I  think  I  ought 
to  have  given  up,  and  not  tried  to  get  well.  What 
do  you  think?" 

Bronson  shook  his  head,  and  cleared  his  throat 
as  if  he  were  going  to  speak,  but  said  nothing. 
Gallegher  was  looking  up  at  the  girl  with  large, 
open  eyes.  Bronson  wondered  if  any  w^oman 
would  ever  love  him  as  much  as  that,  or  if  he 
would  ever  love  any  woman  so.  It  made  him 
feel  lonesome,  and  he  shook  his  head.  *'  Well  ?" 
he  said,  impatiently. 

"  Well,  that's  all ;  that's  how  it  is,"  she  said. 
"She's  been  living  on  there  at  Tacony  with  her 
mother.  She  kept  seeing  as  many  men  as  before, 
and  kept  getting  pitied  all  the  time ;  everybody 
was  so  sorry  for  her.  When  he  was  took  so  bad 
that  time  a  year  ago  with  his  lungs,  they  said  in 
Tacony  that  if  he  died  she'd  marry  Charley  Oakes, 
the  conductor.  He's  always  going  to  see  her. 
Them  that  knew  her  knew  me,  and  I  got  word 
about  how  Henry  was  getting  on.  I  couldn't  see 
him,  because  she  told  lies  about  me  to  the  war- 
den, and  they  wouldn't  let  me.  But  I  got  word 
about  him.  He's  been  fearful  sick  just  lately. 
He  caught  a  cold  walking  in  the  yard,  and  it  got 
down  to  his  lungs.  That's  why  they  are  letting 
him  out.  They  say  he's  changed  so.  I  wonder 
if  I'm  changed  much  ?"  she  said.    "  I've  fallen  off 


OUTSIDE    THE    PHISON  216 

since!  was  ill."  She  passed  her  hands  slowly 
over  her  face,  with  a  touch  of  vanity  that  hurt 
Bronson  somehow,  and  he  wished  he  might  tell 
her  how  pretty  she  still  was.  "Do  you  think 
he'll  know  me  ?"  she  asked.  "  Do  you  think  she'll 
let  me  speak  to  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  How  can  I  tell  ?"  said  the 
reporter,  sharply.  He  was  strangely  nervous  and 
upset.  He  could  see  no  way  out  of  it.  The  girl 
seemed  to  be  telling  the  truth,  and  yet  the  man's 
wife  w^as  with  him  and  by  his  side,  as  she  should 
be,  and  this  woman  had  no  place  on  the  scene, 
and  could  mean  nothing  but  trouble  to  herself 
and  to  every  one  else.  "  Come,"  he  said,  abrupt- 
ly, "  we  had  better  be  getting  up  there.  It's  only 
five  minutes  of  twelve." 

The  girl  turned  with  a  quick  start,  and  walked 
on  ahead  of  them  up  the  drive  leading  between 
the  snow-covered  grass-plots  that  stretched  from 
the  pavement  to  the  wall  of  the  prison.  She 
moved  unsteadily  and  slowl}'',  and  Bronson  saw 
that  she  was  shivering,  either  from  excitement 
or  the  cold. 

"  I  guess,"  said  Gallegher,  in  an  awed  whisper, 
"  that  there's  going  to  be  a  scrap." 

*'  Shut  up,"  said  Bronson. 

They  stopped  a  few  yards  before  the  great 
green  double  gate,  with  a  smaller  door  cut  in  one 
of  its  halves,  and  with  the  light  from  a  big  lan- 
tern shining  down  on  them.  They  could  not  see 
the  clock-face  from  where  they  stood,  and  when 


216  OUTSIDE    THE    PRISON 

Bronson  took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it,  the 
girl  turned  her  face  to  his  appealingly,  but  did 
not  speak. 

"It  will  be  only  a  little  while  now,"  he  said, 
gently.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  so  much 
trouble  and  fear  and  anxiety  in  so  young  a  face, 
and  he  moved  towards  her  and  said,  in  a  whisper, 
as  though  those  inside  could  hear  him,  "Control 
yourself  if  you  can,"  and  then  added,  doubtfully, 
and  still  in  a  whisper,  "  You  can  take  my  arm  if 
you  need  it."  The  girl  shook  her  head  dumbly, 
but  took  a  step  nearer  him,  as  if  for  protection, 
and  turned  her  eyes  fearfully  towards  the  gate. 
The  minutes  passed  on  slowly  but  with  intense 
significance,  and  they  stood  so  still  that  they  could 
hear  the  wind  playing  through  the  wires  of  the 
electric  light  back  of  them,  and  the  clicking  of 
the  icicles  as  they  dropped  from  the  edge  of  the 
prison  wall  to  the  stones  at  their  feet. 

And  then  slowly  and  laboriously,  and  like  a 
knell,  the  great  gong  of  the  prison  sounded  the 
first  stroke  of  twelve ;  but  before  it  had  counted 
three  there  came  suddenly  from  all  the  city  about 
them  a  great  chorus  of  clanging  bells  and  the 
shrieks  and  tooting  of  whistles  and  the  booming 
of  cannon.  From  far  down  town  the  big  bell  of 
the  State-house,  with  its  prestige  and  historic  dig- 
nity back  of  it,  tried  to  give  the  time,  but  the 
other  bells  raced  past  it,  and  beat  out  on  the  cold 
crisp  air  joyously  and  uproariously  from  Kensing- 
ton to  the  Schuylkill ;  and  from  far  across  the 


OUTSIDE    THE    PRISON  217 

Neck,  over  the  marshes  and  frozen  ponds,  came 
the  dull  roar  of  the  guns  at  the  navy-yard,  and 
from  the  Delaware  the  hoarse  tootings  of  the 
ferry-boats,  and  the  sharp  shrieks  of  the  tugs, 
until  the  heavens  seemed  to  rock  and  swing  with 
the  great  welcome. 

Gallegher  looked  up  quickly  with  a  queer,  awed 
smile. 

"  It's  Christmas,"  he  said,  and  then  he  nodded 
doubtfully  towards  Bronson  and  said,  "Merry 
Christmas,  sir." 

It  had  come  to  the  waiting  holiday  crowd  down- 
town around  the  State-house,  to  the  captain  of 
the  tug,  fog-bound  on  the  river,  to  the  engineer 
sweeping  across  the  white  fields  and  sounding  his 
welcome  with  his  hand  on  the  bell-cord,  to  the 
prisoners  beyond  the  walls,  and  to  the  children 
all  over  the  land,  watching  their  stockings  at  the 
foot  of  their  beds. 

And  then  the  three  were  instantly  drawn  down 
to  earth  again  by  the  near,  sharp  click  of  opening 
bolts  and  locks,  and  the  green  gates  swung  heav- 
ily in  before  them.  The  jail-yard  was  light  with 
whitewash,  and  two  great  lamps  in  front  of  round 
reflectors  shone  with  blinding  force  in  their  faces, 
and  made  them  start  suddenly  backward,  as 
though  they  had  been  caught  in  the  act  and  held 
in  the  circle  of  a  policeman's  lantern.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  yard  was  the  carriage  in  which  the 
prisoner's  wife  and  her  mother  had  come,  and 
around  it  stood  the  wardens  and  turnkeys  in  their 


218  OUTSIDE    THE    PRISON 

blue  and  gold  uniforms.  They  saw  them  dimly 
from  behind  the  glare  of  the  carriage  lamps  that 
shone  in  their  faces,  and  saw  the  horses  moving 
slowly  towards  them,  and  the  driver  holding  up 
their  heads  as  they  slipped  and  slid  on  the  icy 
stones.  The  girl  put  her  hand  on  Bronson's  arm 
and  clinched  it  with  her  fingers,  but  her  eyes  were 
on  the  advancing  carriage.  The  horses  slipped 
nearer  to  them  and  passed  them,  and  the  lights 
from  the  lamps  now  showed  their  backs  and  the 
paving-stones  beyond  them,  and  left  the  cab  in 
partial  darkness.  It  was  a  four-seated  carriage 
with  a  movable  top,  opening  into  two  halves  at 
the  centre.  It  had  been  closed  when  the  cab  first 
entered  the  prison,  a  few  hours  before,  but  now 
its  top  was  thrown  back,  and  they  could  see  that 
it  held  the  two  women,  who  sat  facing  each  other 
on  the  farther  side,  and  on  the  side  nearer  them, 
stretching  from  the  forward  seat  to  the  top  of  the 
back,  was  a  plain  board  coffin,  prison-made  and 
painted  black. 

The  girl  at  Bronson's  side  gave  something  be- 
tween a  cry  and  a  shriek  that  turned  him  sick  for 
an  instant,  and  that  made  the  office-boy  drop  his 
head  between  his  shoulders  as  though  some  one 
had  struck  at  him  from  above.  Even  the  horses 
shied  with  sudden  panic  towards  one  another,  and 
the  driver  pulled  them  in  with  an  oath  of  conster- 
nation, and  threw  himself  forward  to  look  beneath 
their  hoofs.  And  as  the  carriage  stopped  the  girl 
sprang  in  between  the  wheels  and  threw  her  arms 


OUTSIDE    THE    PEISON  219 

across  the  lid  of  the  coffin,  and  laid  her  face  down 
upon  the  boards  that  were  already  damp  with  the 
falling  snow. 

"  Henry  !  Henry  !  Henry  !"  she  moaned. 

The  surgeon  who  attended  the  prisoner  through 
the  sickness  that  had  cheated  the  country  of  three 
hours  of  his  sentence  ran  out  from  the  hurrying 
crowd  of  wardens  and  drew  the  girl  slowly  and 
gently  away,  and  the  two  women  moved  on  tri- 
umphantly with  their  sorry  victory. 

Bronson  gave  his  copy  to  Gallegher  to  take  to 
the  office,  and  Gallegher  laid  it  and  the  roll  of 
money  on  the  city  editor's  desk,  and  then,  so  the 
chief  related  afterwards,  moved  off  quickly  to  the 
door.  The  chief  looked  up  from  his  proofs  and 
touched  the  roll  of  money  with  his  pencil.  "  Here  ! 
what's  this  ?"  he  asked.     "  Wouldn't  he  take  it  ?" 

Gallegher  stopped  and  straightened  himself  as 
though  about  to  tell  with  proper  dramatic  effect 
the  story  of  the  night's  adventure,  and  then,  as 
though  the  awe  of  it  still  hung  upon  him,  backed 
slowly  to  the  door,  and  said,  confusedly,  "No, 
sir  ;  he  was — he  didn't  need  it." 


AN  UNFINISHED  STOEY 


AN  UNFIOTSHED  STOKY 


MRS.  TREVELYAN,  as  she  took  her  seat, 
shot  a  quick  glance  down  the  length  of  her 
table  and  at  the  arrangement  of  her  guests,  and 
tried  to  learn  if  her  lord  and  master  approved. 
But  he  was  listening  to  something  Lady  Arbuth- 
not,  who  sat  on  his  right,  was  saying,  and,  being  a 
man,  failed  to  catch  her  meaning,  and  only  smiled 
unconcernedly  and  cheerfully  back  at  her.  But 
the  wife  of  the  Austrian  Minister,  who  was  her 
very  dearest  friend,  saw  and  appreciated,  and 
gave  her  a  quick  little  smile  over  her  fan,  which 
said  that  the  table  was  perfect,  the  people  most 
interesting,  and  that  she  could  possess  her  soul  in 
peace.  So  Mrs.  Trevelyan  pulled  afc  the  tips  of 
her  gloves  and  smiled  upon  her  guests.  Mrs. 
Trevelyan  was  not  used  to  questioning  her  pow- 
ers, but  this  dinner  had  been  almost  impromptu, 
and  she  had  been  in  doubt.  It  was  quite  unnec- 
essary, for  her  dinner  carried  with  it  the  added 
virtue  of  being  the  last  of  the  season,  an  encore 
to  all  that  had  gone  before — a  special  number  by 
request  on  the  social  programme.  It  was  not  one 
of  many  others  stretching  on  for  weeks,  for  the 


224  AN   UNFINISHED    STORY 

summer's  change  and  leisure  began  on  the  morrow, 
and  there  was  nothing  hanging  over  her  guests 
that  they  must  go  on  to  later.  They  knew  that 
their  luggage  stood  ready  locked  and  strapped  at 
home  ;  they  could  look  before  them  to  the  whole 
summer's  pleasure,  and  they  were  relaxed  and 
ready  to  be  pleased,  and  broke  simultaneously  into 
a  low  murmur  of  talk  and  laughter.  The  win- 
dows of  the  dining-room  stood  open  from  the 
floor,  and  from  the  tiny  garden  that  surrounded 
the  house,  even  in  the  great  mass  of  stucco  and 
brick  of  encircling  London,  came  the  odor  of 
flowers  and  of  fresh  turf.  A  soft  summer-night 
wind  moved  the  candles  under  their  red  shades ; 
and  gently  as  though  they  rose  from  afar,  and 
not  only  from  across  the  top  of  the  high  wall  be- 
fore the  house,  came  the  rumble  of  the  omnibuses 
passing  farther  into  the  suburbs,  and  the  occa- 
sional quick  rush  of  a  hansom  over  the  smooth 
asphalt.  It  was  a  most  delightful  choice  of  peo- 
ple, gathered  at  short  notice  and  to  do  honor  to 
no  one  in  particular,  but  to  give  each  a  chance  to 
say  good-by  before  he  or  she  met  the  yacht  at 
Southampton  or  took  the  club  train  to  Hom- 
burg.  They  all  knew  each  other  very  well ;  and 
if  there  was  a  guest  of  the  evening,  it  was  one 
of  the  two  Americans — either  Miss  Egerton,  the 
girl  who  was  to  marry  Lord  Arbuthnot,  whose 
mother  sat  on  Trevelyan's  right,  or  young  Gor- 
don, the  explorer,  who  has  just  come  out  of 
Africa.     Miss   Egerton    was   a   most   strikingly 


AN    UNFINISHED    STORY  225 

beautiful  girl,  with  a  strong,  fine  face,  and  an 
earnest,  interested  way  when  she  spoke,  which 
the  English  found  most  attractive.  In  appear- 
ance she  had  been  variously  likened  by  Trevelj-an, 
who  was  painting  her  portrait,  to  a  druidess,  a 
vestal  virgin,  and  a  Greek  goddess  ;  and  Lady 
Arbuthnot's  friends,  who  thought  to  please  the 
girl,  assured  her  that  no  one  would  ever  suppose 
her  to  be  an  American — their  ideas  of  the  American 
young  woman  having  been  gathered  from  those 
who  pick  out  tunes  with  one  finger  on  the  pianos 
in  the  public  parlors  of  the  Metropole.  Miss  Eger- 
ton  was  said  to  be  intensely  interested  in  her  lover's 
career,  and  was  as  ambitious  for  his  success  in  the 
House  as  he  was  himself.  They  were  both  very 
much  in  love,  and  showed  it  to  others  as  little  as 
people  of  their  class  do.  The  others  at  the  table 
were  General  Sir  Henry  Kent  ;  Phillips,  the  nov- 
elist ;  the  Austrian  Minister  and  his  young  wife ; 
and  Trevelyan,  who  painted  portraits  for  large 
sums  of  money  and  figure  pieces  for  art  ;  and 
some  simply  fashionable  smart  people  who  were 
good  listeners,  and  who  were  rather  disappointed 
that  the  American  explorer  was  no  more  sun- 
burned than  other  young  men  who  had  stayed  at 
home,  and  who  had  gone  in  for  tennis  or  yacht- 
ing. 

The  worst  of  Gordon  was  that  he  made  it- next 

to  impossible  for  one  to  lionize  him.     He  had 

been  back  in  civilization  and  London  only  two 

weeks,  unless  Cairo  and   Shepheard's  Hotel  are 

15 


226  -A-N    UNFINISHED    STORY 

civilization,  and  he  had  been  asked  everywhere, 
and  for  the  first  week  had  gone  'everywhere. 
But  whenever  his  hostess  looked  for  him,  to 
present  another  and  not  so  recent  a  lion,  he  w^as 
generally  found  either  humbly  carrying  an  ice  to 
some  neglected  dowager,  or  talking  big  game  or 
international  yachting  or  tailors  to  a  circle  of 
younger  sons  in  the  smoking-room,  just  as  though 
several  hundred  attractive  and  distinguished  peo- 
ple were  not  waiting  to  fling  the  speeches  they 
had  prepared  on  Africa  at  him,  in  the  drawing- 
room  above.  He  had  suddenly  disappeared  dur- 
ing the  second  week  of  his  stay  in  London,  which 
w^as  also  the  last  week  of  the  London  season,  and 
managers  of  lecture  tours  and  publishers  and 
lion-hunters,  and  even  friends  who  cared  for  him 
for  himself,  had  failed  to  find  him  at  his  lodg- 
ings. Trevelyan,  who  had  known  him  when  he 
was  a  travelling  correspondent  and  artist  for  one 
of  the  great  weeklies,  had  found  him  at  the  club 
the  night  before,  and  had  asked  him  to  his  wife's 
impromptu  dinner,  from  which  he  had  at  first 
begged  off,  but,  on  learning  who  was  to  be  there, 
had  changed  his  mind  and  accepted.  Mrs.  Tre- 
velyan was  very  glad  he  had  come  ;  she  had  al- 
ways spoken  of  him  as  a  nice  boy,  and  now  that 
he  had  become  famous  she  liked  him  none  the  less, 
but  did  not  show  it  before  people  as  much  as  she 
had  been  used  to  do.  She  forgot  to  ask  him  whether 
he  knew  his  beautiful  compatriot  or  not ;  but  she 
took  it  for  granted  that  they  had  met,  if  not  at 


AN   UNFINISHED    STOKY  227 

home,  at  least  in  London,  as  they  had  both  been 
made  so  much  of,  and  at  the  same  houses. 

The  dinner  was  well  on  its  way  towards  its 
end,  and  the  women  had  begun  to  talk  across  the 
table,  and  to  exchange  bankers'  addresses,  and  to 
say  "  Be  sure  and  look  us  up  in  Paris,"  and 
"When  do  you  expect  to  sail  from  Cowes?" 
They  were  enlivened  and  interested,  and  the  pres- 
ent odors  of  the  food  and  flowers  and  wine,  and 
the  sense  of  leisure  before  them,  made  it  seem 
almost  a  pity  that  such  a  well-suited  gathering 
should  have  to  separate  for  even  a  summer's 
pleasure. 

The  Austrian  Minister  was  saying  this  to  his 
hostess,  when  Sir  Henry  Kent,  who  had  been 
talking  across  to  Phillips,  the  novelist,  leaned 
back  in  his  place  and  said,  as  though  to  challenge 
the  attention  of  every  one,  "I  can't  agree  with 
you,  Phillips.     I  am  sure  no  one  else  will." 

"  Dear  me,"  complained  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  plain- 
tively, "what  have  you  been  saying  now,  Mr. 
Phillips  ?  He  always  has  such  debatable  theo- 
ries," she  explained. 

"On  the  contrary,  Mrs.  Trevelyan,"  answered 
the  novelist,  "  it  is  the  other  way.  It  is  Sir  Henry 
who  is  making  all  the  trouble.  He  is  attacking 
one  of  the  oldest  and  dearest  platitudes  I  know." 
He  paused  for  the  general  to  speak,  but  the  older 
man  nodded  his  head  for  him  to  go  on.  "  He 
has  just  said  that  fiction  is  stranger  than  truth," 
continued  the  novelist.     "  He  says  that  I — that 


228  AN    UNFINISHED    STORY 

people  who  write  could  never  interest  people  who 
read  if  they  wrote  of  things  as  they  really  are. 
They  select,  he  says — they  take  the  critical  mo- 
ment in  a  man's  life  and  the  crises,  and  w^ant 
others  to  believe  that  that  is  what  happens  every 
da}^  Which  it  is  not,  so  the  general  says.  He 
thinks  that  life  is  commonplace  and  uneventful 
— that  is,  uneventful  in  a  picturesque  or  dramatic 
way.  He  admits  that  women's  lives  are  saved 
from  drowning,  but  that  they  are  not  saved  by 
their  lovers,  but  by  a  longshoreman  with  a  wife 
and  six  children,  who  accepts  five  pounds  for  do- 
ing it.     That's  it,  is  it  not  ?"  he  asked. 

The  general  nodded  and  smiled.  ''  What  I 
said  to  Phillips  was,"  he  explained,  "that  if 
things  were  related  just  as  they  happen,  they 
would  not  be  interesting.  People  do  not  say  the 
dramatic  things  they  say  on  the  stage  or  in 
novels ;  in  real  life  they  are  commonplace  or  sor- 
did— or  disappointing.  I  have  seen  men  die  on 
the  battle-field,  for  instance,  and  they  never  cried, 
*I  die  that  my  country  may  live,'  or  *I  have  got 
my  promotion  at  last ;'  they  just  stared  up  at  the 
surgeon  and  said,  '  Have  I  got  to  lose  that  arm  ?' 
or  '  I  am  killed,  I  think.'  You  see,  when  men  are 
dying  around  you,  and  horses  are  plunging,  and 
the  batteries  are  firing,  one  doesn't  have  time  to 
think  up  the  appropriate  remark  for  the  occasion. 
I  don't  believe,  now,  that  Pitt's  last  words  were, 
*  Roll  up  the  map  of  Europe.'  A  man  who  could 
change  the  face  of  a  continent  would  not  use  his 


AN    UNFINISHED    STORY  229 

dying  breath  in  making  epigrams.  It  was  one  of 
his  secretaries  or  one  of  the  doctors  who  said  that. 
And  the  man  who  was  capable  of  writing  home, 
'AH  is  lost  but  honor,'  was  just  the  sort  of  a  man 
who  would  lose  more  battles  than  he  would  win. 
No  ;  you,  Phillips,"  said  the  general,  raising  his 
voice  as  he  became  more  confident  and  conscious 
that  he  held  the  centre  of  the  stage,  *'  and  you, 
Trevelyan,  don't  write  and  paint  every-day  things 
as  they  are.  You  introduce  something  for  a  con- 
trast or  for  an  effect  ;  a  red  coat  in  a  landscape 
for  the  bit  of  color  you  want,  when  in  real  life  the 
red  coat  would  not  be  within  miles ;  or  you  have 
a  band  of  music  playing  a  popular  air  in  the  street 
when  a  murder  is  going  on  inside  the  house.  You 
do  it  because  it  is  effective  ;  but  it  isn't  true.  Now 
Mr.  Caithness  was  telling  us  the  other  night  at 
the  club,  on  this  very  matter — " 

**0h,  that's  hardly  fair,"  laughed  Trevelyan; 
"  you've  rehearsed  all  this  before.  You've  come 
prepared." 

*'  No,  not  at  all,"  frowned  the  general,  sweeping 
on.  "  He  said  that  before  he  was  raised  to  the 
bench,  when  he  practised  criminal  law,  he  had 
brought  word  to  a  man  that  he  was  to  be  re- 
prieved, and  to  another  that  he  was  to  die.  Now, 
you  know,"  exclaimed  the  general,  with  a  shrug, 
and  appealing  to  the  table,  "  how  that  would  be 
done  on  the  stage  or  in  a  novel,  with  the  prisoner 
bound  ready  for  execution,  and  a  galloping  horse, 
and  a  fluttering  piece  of  white  paper,  and  all  that. 


230  AN    UNFINISHED   STORY 

Well,  now,  Caithness  told  us  that  he  went  into  the 
man's  cell  and  said,  *You  have  been  reprieved, 
John,'  or  William,  or  whatever  the  fellow's  name 
was.  And  the  man  looked  at  him  and  said  :  *Is 
that  so  ?  That's  good — that's  good  ;'  and  that 
was  all  he  said.  And  then,  again,  he  told  one 
man  whose  life  he  had  tried  very  hard  to  save  : 
'  The  Home  Secretary  has  refused  to  intercede  for 
you.  I  saw  him  at  his  house  last  night  at  nine 
o'clock.'  And  the  murderer,  instead  of  saying, 
*  My  God  !  what  will  my  wife  and  children  do  ?' 
looked  at  him,  and  repeated,  *  At  nine  o'clock  last 
night !'  just  as  though  that  were  the  important 
part  of  the  message." 

'*Well,  but,  general,"  said  Phillips,  smiling, 
"  that's  dramatic  enough  as  it  is,  I  think.    Why — " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  the  general,  quickly  and 
triumphantly.  "  But  that  is  not  what  you  would 
have  made  him  say,  is  it  ?     That's  my  point." 

"  There  was  a  man  told  me  once,"  Lord  Arbuth- 
not  began,  leisurely — "  he  was  a  great  chum  of 
mine,  and  it  illustrates  what  Sir  Henry  has  said, 
I  think — he  was  engaged  to  a  girl,  and  he  had  a 
misunderstanding  or  an  understanding  with  her 
that  opened  both  their  eyes,  at  a  dance,  and  the 
next  afternoon  he  called,  and  they  talked  it  over 
in  the  drawing-room,  with  the  tea-tray  between 
them,  and  agreed  to  end  it.  On  the  stage  he 
would  have  risen  and  said,  *  Well,  the  comedy  is 
over,  the  tragedy  begins,  or  the  curtain  falls  ; 
and  she  would  have  gone  to  the  piano  and  played 


AN   UNFINISHED    STORY  231 

Chopin  sadly  while  he  made  his  exit.  Instead  of 
which  he  got  up  to  go  without  saying  anything, 
and  as  he  rose  he  upset  a  cup  and  saucer  on  the 
tea-table,  and  said,  '  Oh,  I  beg  j^our  pardon  ;'  and 
she  said,  '  It  isn't  broken  ;'  and  he  went  out.  You 
see,"  the  young  man  added,  smiling,  "  there  were 
two  young  people  whose  hearts  were  breaking, 
and  yet  they  talked  of  teacups,  not  because  they 
did  not  feel,  but  because  custom  is  too  strong  on 
us  and  too  much  for  us.  We  do  not  say  dramatic 
things  or  do  theatrical  ones.  It  does  not  make  in- 
teresting reading,  but  it  is  the  truth." 

"Exactly,"  cut  in  the  Austrian  Minister,  eager- 
ly. "And  then  there  is  the  prerogative  of  the 
author  and  of  the  playwright  to  drop  a  curtain 
whenever  he  wants  to,  or  to  put  a  stop  to  every- 
thing by  ending  the  chapter.  That  isn't  fair. 
That  is  an  advantage  over  nature.  When  some 
one  accuses  some  one  else  of  doing  something 
dreadful  at  the  play,  down  comes  the  curtain 
quick  and  keeps  things  at  fever  point,  or  the 
chapter  ends  with  a  lot  of  stars,  and  the  next 
page  begins  with  a  description  of  a  sunset  two 
weeks  later.  To  be  true,  we  ought  to  be  told 
what  the  man  who  is  accused  said  in  the  reply, 
or  what  happened  during  those  two  weeks  before 
the  sunset.  The  author  really  has  no  right  to 
choose  only  the  critical  moments,  and  to  shut 
out  the  commonplace,  every-day  life  by  a  sort  of 
literary  closure.  That  is,  if  he  claims  to  tell  the 
truth." 


232  AN    UNFINISHED    STORY 

Phillips  raised  his  eyebrows  and  looked  care- 
fully around  the  table.  "  Does  any  one  else  feel 
called  upon  to  testify  ?"  he  asked. 

"  It's  awful,  isn't  it,  Phillips,"  laughed  Trevel- 
yan,  comfortably,  "  to  find  that  the  photographer 
is  the  only  artist,  after  all  ?     I  feel  very  guilty." 

"  You  ought  to,"  pronounced  the  general,  gay- 
\y.  He  was  very  well  satisfied  with  himself  at 
having  held  his  own  against  these  clever  people. 
"  And  I  am  sure  Mr.  Gordon  will  agree  w^ith  me, 
too,"  he  went  on,  confidently,  with  a  bow  towards 
the  younger  man.  *'  He  has  seen  more  of  the 
world  than  any  of  us,  and  he  will  tell  you,  I  am 
sure,  that  what  happens  only  suggests  the  story  ; 
it  is  not  complete  in  itself.  That  it  always  needs 
the  author's  touch,  just  as  the  rough  diamond — " 

"  Oh,  thanks,  thanks,  general,"  laughed  Phillips. 
"My  feelings  are  not  hurt  as  badly  as  that." 

Gordon  had  been  turning  the  stem  of  a  wine- 
glass slowly  between  his  thumb  and  his  finger 
while  the  others  were  talking,  and  looking  down 
at  it  smiling,  Now  he  raised  his  eyes  as  though 
he  meant  to  speak,  and  then  dropped  them  again. 
"I  am  afraid.  Sir  Henry,"  he  said,  "that  I  don't 
agree  with  you  at  all." 

Those  who  had  said  nothing  felt  a  certain  satis- 
faction that  they  had  not  committed  themselves. 
The  Austrian  Minister  tried  to  remember  what  it 
was  he  had  said,  and  whether  it  was  too  late  to 
retreat,  and  the  general  looked  blankly  at  Gordon 
and  said,  "  Indeed  ?" 


AN    UNFINISHED   STORY  233 

"You  shouldn't  have  called  on  that  last  witness, 
Sir  Henry,"  said  Phillips,  smiling.  "  Your  case  was 
very  good  as  it  was." 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  said  Gordon,  seriously,  "that 
the  story  Phillips  will  never  write  is  a  true  story, 
but  he  will  not  write  it  because  people  would  say 
it  is  impossible,  just  as  you  have  all  seen  sunsets 
sometimes  that  you  knew  Avould  be  laughed  at  if 
any  one  tried  to  paint  them.  We  all  know  such 
a  story,  something  in  our  own  lives,  or  in  the 
lives  of  our  friends.  Not  ghost  stories,  or  stories 
of  adventure,  but  of  ambitions  that  come  to  noth- 
ing, of  people  who  were  rewarded  or  punished  in 
this  world  instead  of  in  the  next,  and  love  stories." 

Phillips  looked  at  the  young  man  keenly  and 
smiled.    "  Especially  love  stories,"  he  said. 

Gordon  looked  back  at  him  as  if  he  did  not  un- 
derstand. 

"  Tell  it,  Gordon,"  said  Mr.  Trevelyan. 

"Yes," said  Gordon, nodding  his  head  in  assent, 
"  I  was  thinking  of  a  particular  story.  It  is  as  com- 
plete, I  think,  and  as  dramatic  as  any  of  those  we 
read.  It  is  about  a  man  I  met  in  Africa.  It  is  not 
a  long  story,"  he  said,  looking  around  the  table  ten- 
tatively, "but  it  ends  badly." 

There  was  a  silence  much  more  appreciated  than 
a  polite  murmur  of  invitation  would  have  been, 
and  the  simply  smart  people  settled  themselves 
rigidly  to  catch  every  word  for  future  use.  They 
realized  that  this  would  be  a  story  which  had  not 
as  yet  appeared  in  the  newspapers,  and  which 


234  AN    UNFINISHED    STORY 

would  not  make  a  part  of  Gordon's  book.  Mrs. 
Trevelyan  smiled  encouragingly  upon  her  former 
protege ;  she  was  sure  he  was  going  to  do  himself 
credit ;  but  the  American  girl  chose  this  chance, 
when  all  the  other  eyes  were  turned  expectantly 
towards  the  explorer,  to  look  at  her  lover. 

"We  were  on  our  return  march  from  Lake 
Tchad  to  the  Mobangi,"  said  Gordon.  "  We  had 
been  travelling  over  a  month,  sometimes  by  water 
and  sometimes  through  the  forest,  and  we  did  not 
expect  to  see  any  other  white  men  besides  those  of 
our  own  party  for  several  months  to  come.  In 
the  middle  of  a  jungle  late  one  afternoon  I  found 
this  man  lying  at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  He  had  been 
cut  and  beaten  and  left  for  dead.  It  was  as  much 
of  a  surprise  to  me,  you  understand,  as  it  would 
be  to  you  if  j^ou  were  driving  through  Trafalgar 
Square  in  a  hansom,  and  an  African  lion  should 
spring  up  on  your  horses'  haunches.  We  believed 
we  were  the  only  white  men  that  had  ever  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  that  far  south.  Crampel  had 
tried  it,  and  no  one  knows  yet  whether  he  is  dead 
or  alive  ;  Doctor  Schlemen  had  been  eaten  by 
cannibals,  and  Major  Bethume  had  turned  back 
two  hundred  miles  farther  north ;  and  we  could 
no  more  account  for  this  man's  presence  than  if 
he  had  been  dropped  from  the  clouds.  Lieuten- 
ant Royce,  my  surgeon,  went  to  work  at  him,  and 
we  halted  where  we  were  for  the  night.  In 
about  an  hour  the  man  moved  and  opened  his 
eyes.    He  looked  up  at  us  and  said,* Thank  God  !' 


AN    UNFINISHED    STOKY  235 

— ^because  we  were  white,  I  suppose — and  went 
off  into  unconsciousness  again.  When  he  came 
to  the  next  time,  he  asked  Royce,  in  a  whisper, 
how  long  he  had  to  live.  He  wasn't  the  sort  of  a 
man  you  had  to  lie  to  about  a  thing  like  that,  and 
Royce  told  him  he  did  not  think  he  could  live  for 
more  than  an  hour  or  two.  The  man  moved  his 
head  to  show  that  he  understood,  and  raised  his 
hand  to  his  throat  and  began  pulling  at  his  shirt, 
but  the  effort  sent  him  off  into  a  fainting-fit 
again.  I  opened  his  collar  for  him  as  gently  as  I 
could,  and  found  that  his  fingers  had  clinched 
around  a  silver  necklace  that  he  wore  about  his 
neck,  and  from  which  there  hung  a  gold  locket 
sliaped  like  a  heart." 

Gordon  raised  his  eyes  slowly  from  the  obser- 
vation of  his  finger-tips  as  they  rested  on  the  edge 
of  the  table  before  him  to  those  of  the  American 
girl  who  sat  opposite.  She  had  heard  his  story  so 
far  without  any  show  of  attention,  and  had  been 
watching,  rather  with  a  touch  of  fondness  in  her 
eyes,  the  clever,  earnest  face  of  Arbuthnot,  who 
was  following  Gordon's  story  with  polite  interest. 
But  now,  at  Gordon's  last  words,  she  turned  her 
eyes  to  him  with  a  look  of  awful  indignation, 
which  was  followed,  when  she  met  his  calmly 
polite  look  of  inquiry,  by  one  of  fear  and  almost 
of  entreaty. 

"  When  the  man  came  to,"  continued  Gordon, 
in  the  same  conventional  monotone,  "  he  begged 
me  to  take  the  chain  and  locket  to  a  girl  whom 


236  AN    UNFINISHED    STORY 

he  said  I  would  find  either  in  London  or  in  New 
York.  He  gave  me  the  address  of  her  banker. 
He  said  :  *Take  it  off  my  neck  before  you  bury 
me  ;  tell  her  I  wore  it  ever  since  she  gave  it  to 
me.  That  it  has  been  a  charm  and  loadstone  to 
me.  That  when  the  locket  rose  and  fell  against 
my  breast,  it  was  as  if  her  heart  were  pressing 
against  mine  and  answering  the  beating  and 
throbbing  of  the  blood  in  my  veins.' " 

Gordon  paused,  and  returned  to  the  thoughtful 
scrutiny  of  his  finger-tips. 

"The  man  did  not  die,"  he  said,  raising  his 
head.  "  Royce  brought  him  back  into  such  form 
again  that  in  about  a  week  we  were  able  to  take 
him  along  with  us  on  a  litter.  But  he  was  very 
weak,  and  would  lie  for  hours  sleeping  when  we 
rested,  or  mumbling  and  raving  in  a  fever.  We 
learned  from  him  at  odd  times  that  he  had  been 
trying  to  reach  Lake  Tchad,  to  do  what  we  had 
done,  without  any  means  of  doing  it.  He  had 
had  not  more  than  a  couple  of  dozen  porters  and 
a  corporal's  guard  of  Senegalese  soldiers.  He 
was  the  only  white  man  in  the  party,  and  his  men 
had  turned  on  him,  and  left  him  as  we  found  him, 
carrying  off  with  them  his  stock  of  provisions 
and  arms.  He  had  undertaken  the  expedition  on 
a  promise  from  the  French  government  to  make 
him  governor  of  the  territory  he  opened  up  if  he 
succeeded,  but  he  had  had  no  official  help.  If  he 
failed,  he  got  nothing  ;  if  he  succeeded,  he  did  so 
at  his  own  expense  and  by  his  own  endeavors.    It 


AN   UNFINISHED    STORY  237 

was  only  a  wonder  he  had  been  able  to  get  as  far 
as  he  did.  He  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  failure  of 
his  expedition.  All  that  was  lost  in  the  happiness 
of  getting  back  alive  to  this  woman  with  whom 
he  was  in  love.  He  had  been  three  days  alone 
before  we  found  him,  and  in  those  three  days, 
while  he  waited  for  death,  he  had  thought  of 
nothing  but  that  he  would  never  see  her  again. 
He  had  resigned  himself  to  this,  had  given  up  all 
hope,  and  our  coming  seemed  like  a  miracle  to 
him.  I  have  read  about  men  in  love,  I  have  seen 
it  on  the  stage,  I  have  seen  it  in  real  life,  but  I 
never  saw  a  man  so  grateful  to  God  and  so  happy 
and  so  insane  over  a  woman  as  this  man  was.  He 
raved  about  her  when  he  was  feverish,  and  he 
talked  and  talked  to  me  about  her  when  he  was 
in  his  senses.  The  porters  could  not  understand 
him,  and  he  found  me  sympathetic,  I  suppose,  or 
else  he  did  not  care,  and  only  wanted  to  speak  of 
her  to  some  one,  and  so  he  told  me  the  story  over 
and  over  again  as  I  walked  beside  the  litter,  or  as 
we  sat  by  the  fire  at  night.  She  must  have  been 
a  very  remarkable  girl.  He  had  met  her  first  the 
year  before,  on  one  of  the  Italian  steamers  that 
ply  from  New  York  to  Gibraltar.  She  was  trav- 
elling with  her  father,  who  was  an  invalid  going 
to  Tangier  for  his  health  ;  from  Tangier  they 
were  to  go  on  up  to  Nice  and  Cannes,  and  in  the 
spring  to  Paris  and  on  to  London  for  this  season 
just  over.  The  man  was  going  from  Gibraltar  to 
Zanzibar,  and  then  on  into  the  Congo.    They  had 


238  AN    UNFINISHED   STORY 

met  the  first  night  out ;  they  had  separated  thir- 
teen days  later  at  Gibraltar,  and  in  that  time  the 
girl  had  fallen  in  love  with  him,  and  had  promised 
to  marry  him  if  he  would  let  her,  for  he  was  very 
proud.  He  had  to  be.  He  had  absolutely  nothing 
to  offer  her.  She  is  very  well  known  at  home.  I 
mean  her  family  is  :  they  have  lived  in  New  York 
from  its  first  days,  and  they  are  very  rich.  The 
girl  had  lived  a  life  as  different  from  his  as  the 
life  of  a  girl  in  society  must  be  from  that  of  a 
vagabond.  He  had  been  an  engineer,  a  newspa- 
per correspondent,  an  officer  in  a  Chinese  army, 
and  had  built  bridges  in  South  America,  and  led 
their  little  revolutions  there,  and  had  seen  service 
on  the  desert  in  the  French  army  of  Algiers.  He 
had  no  home  or  nationality  even,  for  he  had  left 
America  when  he  was  sixteen  ;  he  had  no  family, 
had  saved  no  money,  and  was  trusting  everything 
to  the  success  of  this  expedition  into  Africa  to 
make  him  known  and  to  give  him  position.  It 
was  the  story  of  Othello  and  Desdemona  over 
again.  His  blackness  lay  from  her  point  of  view, 
or  rather  would  have  lain  from  the  point  of  view 
of  her  friends,  in  the  fact  that  he  w^as  as  helpless- 
ly ineligible  a  young  man  as  a  cowboy.  And  he 
really  had  lived  a  life  of  which  he  had  no  great 
reason  to  be  proud.  He  had  existed  entirely  for 
excitement,  as  other  men  live  to  drink  until  they 
kill  themselves  by  it  ;  nothing  he  had  done  had 
counted  for  much  except  his  bridges.  They  are 
still  standing.     But  the  things  he  had  written  are 


AN    UNFINISHED    STORY  239 

lost  in  the  columns  of  the  daily  papers.  The 
soldiers  he  had  fought  with  knew  him  only  as  a 
man  who  cared  more  for  the  fighting  than  for 
what  the  fighting  was  about,  and  he  had  been  as 
ready  to  write  on  one  side  as  to  fight  on  the  oth- 
er. He  was  a  rolling  stone,  and  had  been  a  roll- 
ing stone  from  the  time  he  was  sixteen  and  had 
run  away  to  sea,  up  to  the  day  he  had  met  this 
girl,  when  he  was  just  thirty.  Yet  you  can  see 
how  such  a  man  would  attract  a  young,  impres- 
sionable girl,  who  had  met  only  those  men  whose 
actions  are  bounded  by  the  courts  of  law  or  Wall 
Street,  or  the  younger  set  who  drive  coaches  and 
who  live  the  life  of  the  clubs.  She  had  gone 
through  life  as  some  people  go  through  picture- 
galleries,  with  their  catalogues  marked  at  the  best 
pictures.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  little  fellows 
whose  work  was  skied,  who  were  trying  to  be 
known,  who  were  not  of  her  world,  but  who  toiled 
and  prayed  and  hoped  to  be  famous.  This  man 
came  into  her  life  suddenly  with  his  stories  of 
adventure  and  strange  people  and  strange  places, 
of  things  done  for  the  love  of  doing  them  and 
not  for  the  reward  or  reputation,  and  he  bewil- 
dered her  at  first,  I  suppose,  and  then  fascinated, 
and  then  won  her.  You  can  imagine  how  it  was, 
these  two  walking  the  deck  together  during  the 
day,  or  sitting  side  by  side  when  the  night  came 
on,  the  ocean  stretched  before  them.  The  daring 
of  his  present  undertaking,  the  absurd  glamour 
that  is  thrown  over  those  who  have  gone  into 


240  AN   UNFINISHED    STORY 

that  strange  country  from  wliicb  some  travellers 
return,  and  the  picturesqueness  of  his  past  life. 
It  is  no  wonder  the  girl  made  too  much  of  him. 
I  do  not  think  he  knew  what  was  coming.  He 
did  not  pose  before  her.  I  am  quite  sure,  from 
what  I  knew  of  him,  that  he  did  not.  Indeed,  I 
believed  him  when  he  said  that  he  had  fought 
against  the  more  than  interest  she  had  begun  to 
show  for  him.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  women 
care  for,  but  they  had  not  been  of  this  woman's 
class  or  calibre.  It  came  to  him  like  a  sign  from 
the  heavens.  It  was  as  if  a  goddess  had  stooped 
to  him.  He  told  her  when  they  separated  that  if 
he  succeeded — if  he  opened  this  unknown  coun- 
try, if  he  was  rewarded  as  they  had  promised  to 
reward  him  —  he  might  dare  to  come  to  her; 
and  she  called  him  her  knight-errant,  and  gave 
him  her  chain  and  locket  to  wear,  and  told  him 
whether  he  failed  or  succeeded  it  meant  nothing 
to  her,  and  that  her  life  was  his  while  it  lasted, 
and  her  soul  as  well. 

"  I  think,"  Gordon  said,  stopping  abruptly,  with 
an  air  of  careful  consideration,  "that  those  were 
her  words  as  he  repeated  them  to  me." 

He  raised  his  eyes  thoughtfully  towards  the 
face  of  the  girl  opposite,  and  then  glanced  past 
her,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  recall  the  words  the 
man  had  used.  The  fine,  beautiful  face  of  the 
woman  was  white  and  drawn  around  the  lips,  and 
she  gave  a  quick,  appealing  glance  at  her  hostess, 
as  if  she  would  beg  to  be  allowed  to  go.     But 


AN    UNFINISHED    STORY  241 

Mrs.  Trevelyan  and  her  guests  were  watching  Gor- 
don or  toying  with  the  things  in  front  of  them. 
The  dinner  had  been  served,  and  not  even  the 
soft  movements  of  the  servants  interrupted  the 
young  man's  story. 

*'You  can  imagine  a  man,"  Gordon  went  on, 
more  lightly,  "finding  a  hansom  cab  slow  when 
he  is  riding  from  the  station  to  see  the  woman  he 
loves ;  but  imagine  this  man  urging  himself  and 
the  rest  of  us  to  hurry  when  we  were  in  the  heart 
of  Africa,  with  six  months'  travel  in  front  of  us  be- 
fore we  could  reach  the  first  limits  of  civilization. 
That  is  what  this  man  did.  When  he  was  still 
on  his  litter  he  used  to  toss  and  turn,  and  abuse 
the  bearers  and  porters  and  myself  because  we 
moved  so  slowly.  When  we  stopped  for  the  night 
he  would  chafe  and  fret  at  the  delay  ;  and  when 
the  morning  came  he  was  the  first  to  wake,  if  he 
slept  at  all,  and  eager  to  push  on.  When  at  last 
he  was  able  to  walk,  he  worked  himself  into  a  fe- 
ver again,  and  it  was  only  when  Royce  warned 
him  that  he  would  kill  himself  if  he  kept  on  that 
he  submitted  to  be  carried,  and  forced  himself  to 
be  patient.  And  all  the  time  the  poor  devil  kept 
saying  how  unworthy  he  was  of  her,  how  misera- 
bly he  had  wasted  his  years,  how  unfitted  he  was 
for  the  great  happiness  which  had  come  into  his 
life.  I  suppose  every  man  says  that  when  he  is 
in  love  ;  very  properly,  too  ;  but  the  worst  of  it 
was,  in  this  man's  case,  that  it  was  so  very  true. 
He  was  unworthy  of  her  in  everything  but  his 
16 


242  AN   UNFINISHED    STORY 

love  for  her.  It  used  to  frighten  me  to  see  how 
much  he  cared.  Well,  we  got  out  of  it  at  last, 
and  reached  Alexandria,  and  saw  white  faces  once 
more,  and  heard  women's  voices,  and  the  strain 
and  fear  of  failure  were  over,  and  we  could  breathe 
again.  I  was  quite  ready  enough  to  push  on  to 
London,  but  we  had  to  wait  a  week  for  the  steam- 
er, and  during  that  time  that  man  made  my  life 
miserable.  He  had  done  so  well,  and  would  have 
done  so  much  more  if  he  had  had  my  equip- 
ment, that  I  tried  to  see  that  he  received  all  the 
credit  due  him.  But  he  would  have  none  of  the 
public  receptions,  and  the  audience  with  the  khe- 
dive,  or  any  of  the  fuss  they  made  over  us.  He 
only  wanted  to  get  back  to  her.  He  spent  the 
days  on  the  quay  watching  them  load  the  steamer, 
and  counting  the  hours  until  she  was  to  sail ;  and 
even  at  night  he  would  leave  the  first  bed  he  had 
slept  in  for  six  months,  and  would  come  into  my 
room  and  ask  me  if  I  would  not  sit  up  and  talk 
with  him  until  daylight.  You  see,  after  he  had 
given  up  all  thought  of  her,  and  believed  himself 
about  to  die  without  seeing  her  again,  it  made  her 
all  the  dearer,  I  suppose,  and  made  him  all  the 
more  fearful  of  losing  her  again. 

"He  became  very  quiet  as  soon  as  we  were 
really  under  way,  and  Royce  and  I  hardly  knew 
him  for  the  same  man.  He  would  sit  in  silence 
in  his  steamer-chair  for  hours,  looking  out  at  the 
sea  and  smiling  to  himself,  and  sometimes,  for  he 
was  still  very  weak  and  feverish,  the  tears  would 


AN   UNFINISHED    STORY  243 

come  to  his  eyes  and  run  down  his  cheeks.  *  This 
is  the  way  we  would  sit,'  he  said  to  me  one  night, 
*  with  the  dark  purple  sky  and  the  strange  Southern 
stars  over  our  heads,  and  the  rail  of  the  boat  rising 
and  sinking  below  the  line  of  the  horizon.  And  I 
can  hear  her  voice,  and  I  try  to  imagine  she  is 
still  sitting  there,  as  she  did  the  last  night  out, 
when  I  held  her  hands  between  mine.' "  Gordon 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  more  slowly: 
"  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  that  the  excite- 
ment of  the  journey  overland  had  kept  him  up  or 
not,  but  as  we  went  on  he  became  much  weaker 
and  slept  more,  until  Royce  became  anxious  and 
alarmed  about  him.  But  he  did  not  know  it  him- 
self :  he  had  grown  so  sure  of  his  recovery  then 
that  he  did  not  understand  what  the  weakness 
meant.  He  fell  off  into  long  spells  of  sleep  or 
unconsciousness,  and  woke  only  to  be  fed,  and 
would  then  fall  back  to  sleep  again.  And  in  one 
of  these  spells  of  unconsciousness  he  died.  He 
died  within  two  days  of  land.  He  had  no  home 
and  no  country  and  no  family,  as  I  told  you,  and 
we  buried  him  at  sea.  He  left  nothing  behind 
him,  for  the  very  clothes  he  wore  were  those  we 
had  given  him — nothing  but  the  locket  and  the 
chain  which  he  had  told  me  to  take  from  his  neck 
when  he  died." 

Gordon's  voice  had  grown  very  cold  and  hard. 
He  stopjDcd  and  ran  his  fingers  down  into  his 
pocket  and  pulled  out  a  little  leather  bag.  The 
people  at  the  table  watched  him  in  silence  as  he 


244  AN    UNFINISHED    STORY 

opened  it  and  took  out  a  dull  silver  chain  with  a 
gold  heart  hanging  from  it. 

"  This  is  it,"  he  said,  gently.  He  leaned  across 
the  table,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  those  of  the 
American  girl,  and  dropped  the  chain  in  front  of 
her.     "  Would  you  like  to  see  it  ?"  he  said. 

The  rest  moved  curiously  forward  to  look  at 
the  little  heap  of  gold  and  silver  as  it  lay  on  the 
white  cloth.  But  the  girl,  with  her  eyes  half 
closed  and  her  lips  pressed  together,  pushed  it  on 
with  her  hand  to  the  man  who  sat  next  her,  and 
bowed  her  head  slightly,  as  though  it  was  an  ef- 
fort for  her  to  move  at  all.  The  wife  of  the  Aus- 
trian Minister  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  should  say  your  story  did  end  badly,  Mr. 
Gordon,"  she  said.  "It  is  terribly  sad,  and  so 
unnecessarily  so." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lady  Arbuthnot,  thought- 
fully— "  I  don't  know;  it  seems  to  me  it  was  bet- 
ter. As  Mr.  Gordon  says,  the  man  was  hardly 
worthy  of  her.  A  man  should  have  something 
more  to  offer  a  woman  than  love;  it  is  a  woman's 
prerogative  to  be  loved.  Any  number  of  men 
may  love  her  ;  it  is  nothing  to  their  credit :  they 
cannot  help  themselves." 

"Well,"  said  General  Kent,  "if  all  true  stories 
turn  out  as  badly  as  that  one  does,  I  will  take 
back  what  I  said  against  those  the  story-writers 
tell.  I  prefer  the  ones  Anstey  and  Jerome  make 
up.     I  call  it  a  most  unpleasant  story." 

"  But  it  isn't  finished  yet,"  said  Gordon,  as  he 


AN    UNFINISHED    STORY  245 

leaned  over  and  picked  up  the  chain  and  locket. 
"  There  is  still  a  little  more." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !"  said  the  wife  of  the 
Austrian  Minister,  eagerly.  "But  then,"  she  add- 
ed, "you  can't  make  it  any  better.  You  cannot 
bring  the  man  back  to  life." 

"  No,"  said  Gordon,  "  but  I  can  make  it  a  little 
worse." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  said  Phillips,  with  a  story-teller's 
intuition — "  the  girl." 

"The  first  day  I  reached  London  I  went  to  her 
banker's  and  got  her  address,"  continued  Gordon. 
"And  I  wrote,  saying  I  wanted  to  see  her,  but 
before  I  could  get  an  answer  I  met  her  the  next 
afternoon  at  a  garden-party.  At  least  I  did  not 
meet  her ;  she  was  pointed  out  to  me.  I  saw  a 
very  beautiful  girl  surrounded  by  a  lot  of  men, 
and  asked  who  she  was,  and  found  out  it  was  the 
woman  I  had  written  to,  the  owner  of  the  chain 
and  locket ;  and  I  was  also  told  that  her  engage- 
ment had  just  been  announced  to  a  young  Eng- 
lishman of  family  and  position,  who  had  known 
her  only  a  few  months,  and  with  whom  she  was 
very  much  in  love.  So  you  see,"  he  went  on, 
smiling,  "  that  it  was  better  that  he  died,  believ- 
ing in  her  and  in  her  love  for  him.  Mr.  Phil- 
lips, now,  would  have  let  him  live  to  return  and 
find  her  married  ;  but  Nature  is  kinder  than 
writers  of  fiction,  and  quite  as  dramatic." 

Phillips  did  not  reply  to  this,  and  the  general 
only  shook  his  head  doubtfully  and  said  nothing. 


246  AN    UNFINISHED    STORY 

So  Mrs.  Trevelyan  looked  at  Lady  Arbuthnot, 
and  the  ladies  rose  and  left  the  room.  When  the 
men  had  left  them,  a  young  girl  went  to  the  piano, 
and  the  other  women  seated  themselves  to  listen  ; 
but  Miss  Egerton,  saying  that  it  was  warm,  stepped 
out  through  one  of  the  high  windows  on  to  the 
little  balcony  that  overhung  the  garden.  It  was 
dark  out  there  and  cool,  and  the  rumbling  of  the 
encircling  city  sounded  as  distant  and  as  far  off 
as  the  reflection  seemed  that  its  million  lights 
threw  up  to  the  sky  above.  The  girl  leaned  her 
face  and  bare  shoulder  against  the  rough  stone 
wall  of  the  house,  and  pressed  her  hands  together, 
with  her  fingers  locking  and  unlocking  and  her 
rings  cutting  through  her  gloves.  She  was  trem- 
bling slightly,  and  the  blood  in  her  veins  was  hot 
and  tingling.  She  heard  the  voices  of  the  men 
as  they  entered  the  drawing-room,  the  momentary 
cessation  of  the  music  at  the  piano,  and  its  renewal, 
and  then  a  figure  blocked  the  light  from  the  win- 
dow, and  Gordon  stepped  out  of  it  and  stood  in 
front  of  her  with  the  chain  and  locket  in  his  hand. 
He  held  it  towards  her,  and  they  faced  each  other 
for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  Will  you  take  it  now  ?"  he  said. 

The  girl  raised  her  head,  and  drew  herself  up  un- 
til she  stood  straight  and  tall  before  him.  "  Have 
you  not  punished  me  enough  ?"  she  asked,  in  a 
whisper.  "  Are  you  not  satisfied  ?  Was  it  brave  ? 
Was  it  manly  ?  Is  that  what  you  have  learned 
among  your  savages — to  torture  a  woman  ?"    She 


AN   UNFINISHED    STOKY  247 

stopped  with  a  quick  sob  of  pain,  and  pressed  her 
hands  against  her  breast. 

Gordon  observed  her,  curiously,  with  cold  con- 
sideration. "What  of  the  sufferings  of  the  man 
to  whom  you  gave  this?"  he  asked.  "Why  not 
consider  him?  What  was  your  bad  quarter  of 
an  hour  at  the  table,  with  your  friends  around 
you,  to  the  year  he  suffered  danger  and  physical 
pain  for  you — for  you,  remember  ?" 

The  girl  hid  her  face  for  a  moment  in  her 
hands,  and  when  she  lowered  them  again  her 
cheeks  w^ere  wet  and  her  voice  was  changed  and 
softer.  "They  told  me  he  was  dead,"  she  said. 
"  Then  it  was  denied,  and  then  the  French  papers 
told  of  it  again,  and  with  horrible  detail,  and  how 
it  happened." 

Gordon  took  a  step  nearer  her.  "And  does 
your  love  come  and  go  with  the  editions  of  the 
daily  papers  ?"  he  asked,  fiercely.  "  If  they  say 
to-morrow  morning  that  Arbuthnot  is  false  to  his 
principles  or  his  party,  that  he  is  a  bribe-taker,  a 
man  who  sells  his  vote,  will  you  believe  them  and 
stop  loving  him?"  He  gave  a  sharp  exclamation 
of  disdain.  "  Or  will  you  wait,"  he  went  on,  bit- 
terly, "  until  the  Liberal  organs  have  had  time  to 
deny  it  ?  Is  that  the  love,  the  life,  and  the  soul 
you  promised  the  man  who — " 

There  was  a  soft  step  on  the  floor  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  the  tall  figure  of  young  Arbuthnot 
appeared  in  the  opening  of  the  w^indow  as  he 
looked  doubtfully  out  into  the  darkness.     Gordon 


248  AN    UNFINISHED    STORY 

took  a  step  back  into  the  light  of  the  window, 
where  he  could  be  seen,  and  leaned  easily  against 
the  railing  of  the  balcony.  His  eyes  were  turned 
towards  the  street,  and  he  noticed  over  the  wall 
the  top  of  a  passing  omnibus  and  the  glow  of  the 
men's  pipes  who  sat  on  it. 

"  Miss  Egerton  ?"  asked  Arbuthnot,  his  eyes 
still  blinded  by  the  lights  of  the  room  he  had  left. 
"  Is  she  here  ?  Oh,  is  that  you  ?"  he  said,  as  he 
saw  the  movement  of  the  white  dress.  "I  was 
sent  to  look  for  you,"  he  said.  "  They  were  afraid 
something  was  wrong."  He  turned  to  Gordon, 
as  if  in  explanation  of  his  lover-like  solicitude. 
"It  has  been  rather  a  hard  week,  and  it  has  kept 
one  pretty  well  on  the  go  all  the  time,  and  I 
thought  Miss  Egerton  looked  tired  at  dinner." 

The  moment  he  had  spoken,  the  girl  came  tow- 
ards him  quickly,  and  put  her  arm  inside  of  his, 
and  took  his  hand. 

He  looked  down  at  her  wonderingly  at  this 
show  of  affection,  and  then  drew  her  nearer,  and 
said,  gently,  "  You  are  tired,  aren't  you  ?  I  came 
to  tell  you  that  Lady  Arbuthnot  is  going.  She 
is  waiting  for  you." 

It  struck  Gordon,  as  they  stood  there,  how  hand- 
some they  were  and  how  well  suited.  They  took 
a  step  towards  the  window,  and  then  the  young 
nobleman  turned  and  looked  out  at  the  pretty 
garden  and  up  at  the  sky,  where  the  moon  was 
struggling  against  the  glare  of  the  city, 

*'  It  is  very  pretty  and  peaceful  out  here,"  he 


AN    UNFINISHED    STOKY  249 

said,  "  is  it  not  ?  It  seems  a  pity  to  leave  it. 
Good-night,  Gordon,  and  thank  you  for  your  sto- 
ry." He  stopped,  with  one  foot  on  the  threshold, 
and  smiled.  "And  yet,  do  you  know,"  he  said, 
"  I  cannot  help  thinking  you  were  guilty  of  doing 
just  what  you  accused  Phillips  of  doing.  I  some- 
how thought  you  helped  the  true  story  out  a  lit- 
tle. Now  didn't  you  ?  Was  it  all  just  as  you 
told  it  ?     Or  am  I  wrong  ?" 

"  No,"  Gordon  answered  ;  "  you  are  right.  I 
did  change  it  a  little,  in  one  particular." 

^'  And  what  was  that,  may  I  ask  ?"  said  Ar- 
buthnot. 

*'  The  man  did  not  die,"  Gordon  answered. 

Arbuthnot  gave  a  quick  little  sigh  of  sympathy. 
"Poor  devil!"  he  said,  softly;  "poor  chap!" 
He  moved  his  left  hand  over  and  touched  the 
hand  of  the  girl,  as  though  to  reassure  himself  of 
his  own  good  fortune.  Then  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  Gordon's  with  a  curious,  puzzled  look  in  them. 
"But  then,"  he  said,  doubtfully,  "if  he  is  not 
dead,  how  did  you  come  to  get  the  chain  ?" 

The  girl's  arm  within  his  own  moved  slightly, 
and  her  fingers  tightened  their  hold  upon  his  hand. 

"Oh,"  said  Gordon,  indifferently,  "it  did  not 
mean  anything  to  him,  you  see,  when  he  found  he 
had  lost  her,  and  it  could  not  mean  anything  to 
her.  It  is  of  no  value.  It  means  nothing  to  any 
one — except,  perhaps,  to  me." 

THE    END. 


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cate, N.  y. 

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sation, and  we  put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  to  think  our  pleasant 
task  of  reading  it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have  fallen  to 
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Review,  London. 

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A   KING   OF  TYRE. 

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and  the  whole  treatment  of  the  subject  is  strikingly  original, 
and  there  is  a  dramatic  intensity  in  the  story  which  will  at  once 
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Must  be  unhesitatingly  set  down  as  a  highly  satisfactory  per- 
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In  "  A  King  of  Tyre  "  we  live  and  move  amid  old  ideas,  old 
superstitions,  and  an  extinct  civilization.  But  this  vanished  order 
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Courier. 

Strong  in  its  central  historical  character,  abounding  in  inci- 
dent, rapid  and  stirring  in  action,  animated  and  often  brilliant 
in  style. — Christian  Union,  N.  Y. 

Something  new  and  striking  interests  us  in  almost  every  chap- 
ter. The  peasantry  of  the  Balkans,  the  training  and  govern- 
ment of  the  Janizaries,  the  interior  of  Christian  and  Moslem 
camps,  the  horrors  of  raids  nnd  battles,  the  violence  of  the  Sul- 
tan, the  tricks  of  spies,  the  exploits  of  heroes,  engage  Mr.  Lud- 
low's fluent  pen. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

Dr.  Ludlow's  style  is  a  constant  reminder  of  Walter  Scott, 
and  the  book  is  to  retain  a  permanent  place  in  literature. —  Ob- 
server^ N.  Y. 

An  altogether  admirable  piece  of  work — picturesque,  truthful, 
and  dramatic. — Newark  Advertiser. 

A  most  romantic,  enjoyable  tale.  ...  As  affording  views  of 
inner  life  in  the  East  as  long  ago  as  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  this  tale  ought  to  have  a  charm  for  many ;  but  it  is 
full  enough  of  incident,  wherever  the  theatre  of  its  action  might 
be  found,  to  do  this. —  Troy  Press. 

The  autlior  has  used  his  material  with  skill,  weaving  the  facts 
of  history  into  a  story  crowded  with  stirring  incidents  and  un- 
expected situations,  and  a  golden  thread  ot  love-making,  under 
extreme  difficulties,  runs  through  the  narrative  to  a  happy  issue. 
— Examiner,  N.  Y. 

One  of  the  strongest  and  most  fascinating  historical  novels  of 
the  last  quarter  of  a  century. — Boston  Pilot. 


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BEISr-HUK: 

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Aiiylhing  so  startling,  new,  and  distinctive  as  tlie  leading  feature  of 
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Mr.  Wallace's  writing  is  remarkable  for  its  pathetic  eloquence.  The 
scenes  described  in  the  New  Testament  are  rewritten  with  the  power 
and  skill  of  an  accomplished  master  of  style.— iV.  Y.  Times. 

Its  real  basis  is  a  description  of  the  life  of  the  Jews  and  Romans  at 
the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  and  this  is  both  forcible  and  brill- 
iant. .  .  .We  are  carried  through  a  surprising  variety  of  scenes;  we 
witness  a  sea-fight,  a  chariot-race,  the  internal  economy  of  a  Koman 
galley,  domestic  interiors  at  Antioch,  at  Jerusalem,  and  among  the 
tribes  of  the  desert;  palaces,  prisons,  the  haunts  of  dissipated  Roman 
youth,  the  houses  of  pious  families  of  Israel.  There  is  plenty  of  ex- 
citing incident;  everything  is  animated,, vivid,  and  glowing.— .V.  Y. 
Tribune. 

It  is  full  of  poetic  beauty,  as  though  born  of  an  Eastern  sage,  and 
there  is  sufficient  of  Oriental  customs,  geography,  nomenclature,  etc., 
to  greatly  strengthen  the  semblance. — Boston  Commonweallh. 

"Ben-Hur  "  is  interesting,  and  its  characterization  is  fine  and  strong. 
Meanwhile  it  evinces  careful  study  of  the  period  in  which  the  scene  is 
laid,  and  will  help  those  who  read  it  with  reasonable  attention  to  real- 
ize the  nature  and  conditions  of  Hebrew  life  in  Jerusalem  and  Ro- 
man life  at  Amioch  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour's  advent.— Examiner, 
N.Y. 

The  book  is  one  of  unquestionable  power,  and  will  be  read  with  un- 
wonted interest  by  many  readers  who  are  weary  of  the  conventional 
novel  and  romance. — Boston  Journal. 


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